w 




Xr.^ 




w 

:%«?, 



6* ^ 








^ 




^d* 



-r 







<;5 <?* » 







a>** 



:<V 



* 







» « ' Ap 



^o 1 




-Mm-- v 



-> 




.•istak v** ••«"' %/ 4* 





% 




****** 



i°v\ 



.^°* 







THE FLEDGLING 



THE FLEDGLING 



By 



CHARLES BERNARD NORDHOFF 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

Qtfie fcibtrslbe $re*0 Cambrfose 

1919 






COPYRIGHT, 1917 AND IQl8, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY CHARLES BERNARD NORDHOFF 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



/.*r 



M 17 u 

©CI.A515902 



CONTENTS 

I. A Watcher of the Skies ... 1 

II. The Fledgling 70 

III. Full-Fledged 94 



THE FLEDGLING 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 

January 22, 1917 

We were put on active duty at the front 
about the first of the year; in fact, I spent 
New Year's night in a dugout within pis- 
tol-shot of the Germans. It was quite a 
celebration, as the French Government 
had provided champagne, cakes, and 
oranges for all, and every one was feeling 
in a cheery mood. When dinner was over, 
each of us chipped in his day's ration of 
army wine (about a pint), and with a little 
brandy, some oranges, sugar, and a packet 
of spices I had been commissioned to get, 
we brewed a magnificent bowl of hot 
punch, or mulled wine. First "The Day 
of Victory" was toasted, then, "France"; 
then, with typical French consideration, 



2 THE FLEDGLING 

"The United States." After that, each 
man's family at home received a health; 
so you may be interested to know that 
your health and happiness for 1917 were 
drunk in a first-class abri by a crowd of 
first-class fellows, as all French soldiers 
are. 

The next day was a typical one, so I will 
sketch it for you, to give an idea of how 
we live and what we do. When the party 
broke up it was late, so we turned in at 
once, in a deep strong dugout, which is safe 
against anything short of a direct hit by 
a very heavy shell. Once or twice, as 1 
dropped off to sleep, I thought I heard 
furtive scamperings and gnawings, but all 
was quiet until just before daybreak, when 
we were awakened by a terrifying scream 
from a small and inoffensive soldier who 
does clerical work in the office of the med- 
ecin chef. The poor fellow has a horror of 
rats, and usually sleeps with head and toes 
tightly bundled up. I flashed on my elec- 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 3 

trie torch at the first scream and caught 
a glimpse of an enormous rat — fully the 
size of a small fox terrier, I assure you ! — 
streaking it for his hole. The next minute 
I made out the unfortunate little soldier 
holding with both hands one ear, from 
which the nocturnal visitor had bitten a 
large mouthful, while he did a frantic 
dance around the floor. First came a titter, 
then a choked laugh, and finally the whole 
dugout howled with uncontrollable mirth, 
until the victim wound on his puttees and 
stalked out, much offended, to get some 
iodine for his ear. 

As we had laughed ourselves wide 
awake, I passed around some cigarettes, 
while another fellow went down for a pot 
of coffee. Dressing consists of putting on 
one's shoes, puttees, and tunic — when I 
feel particularly sybaritic I take off my 
necktie at night. 

For once the sun came up in a clear blue 
sky and shone down frostily on a clean 



4 THE FLEDGLING 

white world — a metre of snow on the 
ground, and pines like Christmas trees. It 
was wonderfully still: far away on a hill- 
side some one was chopping wood, and be- 
yond the German lines I could hear a cock 
crow. After stopping to ask the telephon- 
ist if there were any calls, I took towel and 
soap and tooth-brush and walked to the 
watering trough, where a stream of icy 
water runs constantly. As I strolled back, 
a thumping explosion came from the 
trenches — some enthusiast had tossed a 
grenade across as a New Year's greeting 
to the Boche. Retaliatory thumps fol- 
lowed, and suddenly a machine-gun burst 
out with its abrupt stutter. Louder and 
louder grew the racket as gusts of firing 
swept up and down the lines, until a bat- 
tery of 75 *s took a hand from the hills half 
a mile behind us. Crack-whang-crack, they 
went, like the snapping of some enormous 
whip, and I could hear their shells whine 
viciously overhead. 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 5 

An orderly appeared shortly, to inform 
me that I must make ready to take out a 
few wounded. My load consisted of one 
poor fellow on a stretcher, still and invisi- 
ble under his swathing of blankets, and 
two very lively chaps, — each with a leg 
smashed, but able to sit up and talk at a 
great rate. We offered them stretchers, 
but they were refused with gay contempt. 
They hopped forward to their seats, smil- 
ing and nodding good-bye to the stretcher- 
bearers. Despite my efforts one of them 
bumped his wounded leg and a little invol- 
untary gasp escaped him. " Ca pique, mon 
vieux," he explained apologetically; "mais 
ga ne fait rien — allez!" 

At the hospital, several miles back, 
there was the usual wait for papers, and 
as I handed cigarettes to my two plucky 
passengers, I explained that hospital 
book-keeping was tiresome but necessary. 
Suddenly the blood-stained blankets on 
the stretcher moved and a pale, but calm 



6 THE FLEDGLING 

and quizzical face looked up into mine: 
"Oh, la la! C'est une guerre de papier; 
donnez-moi une cigarette!" You can't 
down men of this caliber. 

Just before bedtime another call came 
from a dressing-station at the extreme 
front. It was a thick night, snowing heav- 
ily, and black as ink, and I had to drive 
three kilometres, without light of any kind, 
over a narrow winding road crowded with 
traffic of every description. How one does 
it I can scarcely say. War seems to consist 
in doing the impossible by a series of appar- 
ent miracles. Ears and eyes must be con- 
nected in some way. Driving in pitchy 
blackness, straining every sense and calling 
every nerve to aid one's eyes, it seems that 
vision is impaired if ears are covered. 

At the posts, just behind the lines, 
where one waits for wounded to come in 
from the trenches, I spend idle hours, 
chatting or playing dominoes. Our little 
circle comprises a remarkable variety of 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 7 

types: one hears French of every patois, 
from the half -Spanish drawl of the Medi- 
terranean to the clipped negatives and 
throaty r of Paris. 

As inventors of racy slang we Americans 
are miles behind the French. Your pipe 
is "Melanie" (also your sweetheart, for 
some unknown reason). One's mess is "la 
popote," a shrapnel helmet is a "casse- 
role," a machine-gun is a "moulin a cafe." 
Bed is ironically called "plumard"; and 
when a bursting shell sends out its spray 
of buzzing steel, the cry is "Attention aux 
mouches!" [Look out for the flies!] Gov- 
ernment tobacco is known, aptly, as 
"foin" [hay]. If one wants a cigarette, and 
has a paper but no tobacco, one extends 
the paper toward a better-provided friend 
saying, "Kindly sign this." And so on. 

February 18 

I had an interesting day yesterday. The 
commandant asked for a car — he is the 



8 THE FLEDGLING 

head medical officer — to visit some posts, 
and I was lucky enough to land the job. 
He is a charming, cultivated man, and 
made it very pleasant for his chauffeur. 
We visited a number of posts, inspecting 
new dugout emergency hospitals, and 
vaccinating the stretcher-bearers against 
typhoid — a most amusing process, as 
these middle-aged fellows have the same 
horror of a doctor that a child has of a 
dentist. Reluctant was scarcely the word. 
Finally we left the car (at the invita- 
tion of the artillery officer) and walked a 
couple of miles through the woods to see 
a new observation post. The last few hun- 
dred yards we made at a sneaking walk, 
talking only in whispers, till we came to a 
ladder that led up into the thick green of 
a pine tree. One after another the officers 
went up, and at length the gunner beck- 
oned me to climb. Hidden away like a 
bird's nest among the fragrant pine- 
needles, I found a tiny platform, where 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 9 

the officer handed me his binoculars and 
pointed to a four-inch hole in the leafy- 
screen. There right below us were two in- 
conspicuous lines of trenches, zigzagging 
across a quiet field, bounded by leafless 
pollard willows. It was incredible to think 
that hundreds of men stood in those 
ditches, ever on the alert. At a first glance 
the countryside looked strangely peaceful 
and unhampered — farm-houses here and 
there, neatly hedged fields, and, farther 
back, a village with a white church. Look 
closer, though, and you see that the 
houses are mere shells, with crumbling 
walls and shattered windows; the fields 
are scarred and pitted with shell-holes, 
the village is ruined and lifeless, and the 
belfry of the church has collapsed. Above 
all, there is not an animal, not a sign of 
life in the fields or on the roads. Not a 
sound, except the distant hornet buzzing 
of an aeroplane. 

On clear days there is a good deal of 



10 THE FLEDGLING 

aeroplane activity in our section, and one 
never tires of watching the planes. The 
German machines do not bomb us in 
this district, for some reason unknown 
to me, but they try to reconnoiter and 
observe for artillery fire. It is perfectly 
obvious, however, that the French have 
the mastery of the air, by virtue of their 
skillful and courageous pilots and superb 
fighting machines, and their superior skill 
in anti-aircraft fire. To watch a plane at 
an altitude of, say, nine thousand feet 
under shrapnel fire, one would think the 
pilot was playing with death; but in 
reality his occupation is not so tremen- 
dously risky. 

Consider these factors: he is a mile 
and a half to two miles from the battery 
shooting at him, he presents a tiny mark, 
and his speed is from eighty to one hun- 
dred and twenty-five miles per hour. 
Above all, he can twist and turn or change 
his altitude at will. The gunner must 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 11 

calculate his altitude and rate of speed, 
and after the lanyard is pulled, consider- 
able time elapses before the shell reaches 
its mark. Meanwhile, the aviator has 
probably come down or risen or changed 
his course. It is like trying to shoot a 
twisting snipe with very slow-burning 
powder — the odds are all in favor of the 
snipe. 

All the same, the spectacle never quite 
loses its thrill. High and remote against 
the sky you see the big reconnaissance 
machine going steadily on its way, its 
motor sending a faint drone to your ears. 
Keeping it company, darting around it 
like a pilot-fish around a shark, is the 
tiny, formidable appareil de chasse, a 
mere dot against the blue. 

Crack ! Whang ! Boom I goes a battery 
near by, and three white puffs spring out 
suddenly around the distant machines, 
above, behind, below. Another battery 
speaks out, another and another, till the 



12 THE FLEDGLING 

sky is filled with downy balls of smoke. 
Suddenly the firing ceases, and the big 
German aero slants down swiftly toward 
its base. A sharper droning hits your ears. 
There, directly above us, a French fight- 
ing machine is rushing at two hundred 
kilometres an hour to give battle to the 
little Fokker. Close together, wheeling 
and looping the loop to the rattle of their 
mitrailleuses, they disappear into a cloud, 
and we can only guess the result. 

One day later 

I finished the paragraph above just as 
a wave of rifle and machine-gun fire 
rolled along the lines. Running out of 
the abri to see what the excitement was 
about, I saw two French aeros skimming 
low over the German trenches — where 
every one with any kind of a fire-arm 
was blazing away at them. Fortunately, 
neither one was hit, and after a couple of 
retaliatory belts, they rose and flew off to 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 13 

the south. The Germans began to waste 
shrapnel on the air, and indiscreetly re- 
vealed the location of a battery, which 
the French promptly bombarded with 
heavy guns. Pretty soon all hands were 
at it — a two-hour Fourth of July. 

I was on the road all day yesterday, 
afternoon and evening, getting back to 
the post at 10 p.m. One of the darkest 
nights I remember — absolutely impos- 
sible to move without an occasional 
clandestine flash of my torch. Far off 
to the right (twenty or thirty miles) a 
heavy bombardment was in progress, the 
guns making a steady rumble and mutter. 
I could see a continuous flicker on the 
horizon. The French batteries are so 
craftily hidden that I pass within a few 
yards of them without a suspicion. The 
other day I was rounding a familiar turn 
when suddenly, with a tremendous roar 
and concussion, a "380" went off close 
by. The little ambulance shied across the 



14 THE FLEDGLING 

road and I nearly fell off the seat. Talk 
about "death pops" — these big guns 
give forth a sound that must be heard to 
be appreciated. 

Another break here, as since writing 
the above we have had a bit of excite- 
ment, in the shape of a raid, or coup de 
main. In sectors like ours, during the 
periods of tranquillity between more 
important attacks, an occasional coup 
de main is necessary in order to get a 
few prisoners for information about the 
enemy. We are warned beforehand to 
be ready for it, but do not know exactly 
when or where. I will tell you the story 
of the last one, as related by a slightly 
wounded but very happy poilu I brought 
in beside me. 

"After coffee in the morning," he said, 
"our battalion commander called for 
one platoon of volunteers to make the 
attack — each volunteer to have eight 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 15 

days' special leave afterwards. It was 
hard to choose, as every one wanted to 
go — for the 'permission,' and to have 
a little fun with the Boches. At noon 
we were ordered to the first line. Our 
rifles and equipment were left behind, 
each man carrying only a little food, a 
canteen of wine, a long knife, and a sack 
of grenades. Our orders were to advance 
the moment the bombardment ceased, 
take as many prisoners as possible, and 
return before the enemy had recovered 
from his surprise. At the point of attack 
the German trench is only twenty yards 
from ours — several nights before, they 
had rolled out a line of portable wire- 
entanglements. At 4.30 in the afternoon 
our 75's began to plough up the Boche 
trench and rip their wire to shreds. It was 
wonderful — along the line in front of 
us hundreds of our shells, bursting only 
twenty metres off, sent earth and wire 
and timbers high into the air — while not 



16 THE FLEDGLING 

one of us, watching so close by, was 
hurt. 

"At 5.15 the guns ceased firing and 
the next instant we were over the para- 
pet, armed with knives, grenades, and a 
few automatic pistols. After the racking 
noise of the bombardment, a strange 
quiet, a breathless tranquillity, seemed to 
oppress us as we ran through the torn 
wire and jumped into the smoking ruins 
of the enemy trench. In front of me there 
was no one, — only a couple of bodies, — 
but to the right and left I could hear 
grenades going, so it was evident that a 
few Germans had not retreated to the 
dugouts. Straight ahead I saw a boyau 
leading to their second lines, and as I 
ran into this with my squad, we came on 
a German at the turn. His hands were up 
and he was yelling, ' Kamerad, Kamerad ! ' 
as fast as he knew how. Next minute, 
down went his hand and he tossed a 
grenade into our midst. By luck it struck 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 17 

mud, and the time-fuse gave us a mo- 
ment's start. The corporal was killed and 
my pal, Fretard, who lies on the stretcher 
behind, got an eclat through the leg. We 
did not make a prisoner of the Boche. 

"The abris of the second line were full 
of Germans, but all but one were barri- 
caded. A few grenades persuaded the 
survivors to come out of this, with no 
fight left in them; but how to get into 
the others? In vain we invited them to 
come out for a little visit — till some one 
shouted, 'The stove-pipes!' Our barrage 
fire was now making such a fuss that the 
Boches farther back could not use their 
machine-guns, so we jumped on top of 
the dugouts and popped a half-dozen 
citrons into each chimney. That made 
them squeal, mon vieux — oh, la la, ! But 
it was time to go back — our sergeant 
was shouting to us; so, herding our pris- 
oners ahead, we made a sprint back to 
our friends." 



18 THE FLEDGLING 

One of the prisoners was wounded, 
and he was hauled to the hospital by the 
chap with whom I share my quarters. I 
went to have a look at the German — 
always an object of curiosity out here. 
Had to shoulder my way through a crowd 
to get there. He lay on a stretcher, poor 
devil, hollow-eyed, thin, with a ragged 
beard — an object of pity, suffering and 
afraid for his life. His gray overcoat lay 
beside him and near it stood his clumsy 
hobnailed boots. German or no German, 
he was a human being in a bad situation 
— a peasant obviously, and deadly afraid. 

Suddenly, a half-baked civilian — al- 
ways the most belligerent class — reached 
up and plucked contemptuously at his 
leg, with an unpleasant epithet. Then a 
fine thing happened. A French soldier, 
lying near by on a stretcher, severely 
wounded, raised up his head and looked 
sternly at the crowd. "Enough," he said, 
"he is a Boche, I grant you; but first of 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 19 

all remember that he is a soldier, wounded 
and in your power!" 

We were at lunch yesterday when a 
friend rushed in to say that an aeroplane 
fight was starting, almost directly over- 
head. A big French reconnaissance plane 
was diving for safety, with a Fokker 
close behind and German shrapnel burst- 
ing all around, when a tiny French fight- 
ing machine appeared far above, plung- 
ing down like a falcon on its quarry. The 
Fokker turned too late: the Nieuport, 
rushing downward at one hundred and 
fifty miles an hour, looped the loop 
around the German. Two bursts of ma- 
chine-gun fire came down faintly to our 
ears, and the next moment it was evident 
that the German was hit. Slowly at first, 
the Fokker began to fall — this way and 
that, like a leaf falling in still air, grow- 
ing larger each moment before our eyes, 
until it disappeared behind a hill. High 
over the lines, scorning burst after burst 



20 THE FLEDGLING 

of German shrapnel, the tiny Nieuport 
sailed proudly back and forth, as if daring 
any Boche pilot to rise and try his luck. 
In the thrill of the superb spectacle, one 
forgot that the poor chap (a good sports- 
man, if he was a German!) had lost his 
life. 

April, 1917 

I have met some interesting types 

lately. One is Jean B , a sergeant of 

infantry. Jean has been about the world 
a good bit, and when the war broke out 
was just finishing a contract in Spain. 
He promptly came to France and volun- 
teered, and had only fifteen days of 
training before being sent to the front 
for a big attack. Knowing nothing of 
military matters and having distinguished 
himself in the first day's fighting, he was 
made a corporal at once; and next day, 
when the attack began again, he and his 
squad were the first to jump into a section 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 21 

of German trench. There, abandoned in 
the hasty retreat, was a brand-new Ger- 
man machine-gun and forty sacks of 
ammunition. Jean is a canny boy, and 
before the officers had got to where he 
was, he had his men hide gun and car- 
tridges in a clump of bushes. 

The French made a gain of about two 
miles at this point, and owing to the 
nature of the ground, — artillery em- 
placements, and so forth, — the new lines 
were nearly a mile apart. Under these 
conditions, both sides were constantly 
making daylight patrols in the broken 
country between the trenches; and as 
Jean's captain was a good judge of men, 
he let him take his squad out daily, to do 
pretty much as he pleased. Pledging his 
men to absolute secrecy, Jean had them 
hide machine-gun and ammunition a little 
way in front of the new French lines, and 
then gave them a brief drill, in mounting 
and dismounting the gun, tripod, and so 



22 THE FLEDGLING 

forth. (He had worked in an ordnance 
factory, by the way.) Each man carried 
either a part of the gun or a few belts of 
cartridges. 

One morning, just before dawn, they 
crawled up close to the Germans and 
hid themselves in a brushy watercourse 
— mitrailleuse set up and ready for 
action. Presently there were sounds of 
activity in front, and as day broke, they 
made out thirty or forty Germans, who, 
so far away and out of sight of the French, 
were out in the open, working on a new 
trench. Jean's men began to get excited 
and wanted action, but he calmed them, 
whispering to be patient. He himself is 
the most excitable man in the world — 
except in emergencies; a jovial type, with 
black hair and a pair of merry gray eyes 
set in a red, weather-beaten face. 

Hour after hour they bided their time, 
until the Germans, only seventy-five 
yards away, assembled in a group for a 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 23 

rest. Lying on his belly behind the gun, 
Jean sighted and pulled the lever, spray- 
ing lead into the unfortunate Boches 
until the last belt of two hundred car- 
tridges had raced through. Then it was 
all hands dismount the gun and retreat 
at top speed. Sneaking "home" by de- 
vious ways, they smiled to see shells begin 
to smash into the position they had so 
lately left. 

At supper that evening (the meal 
known universally as "la soupe"), the 
colonel came strolling down the trench 
with Jean's subaltern. The lieutenant 
nodded and pointed, then called Jean 
over. 

"Ah," said the colonel, smiling, "so 
this is the type who was on patrol this 
morning — hum. I was in an advanced 
observation post on the hill above you 
and saw the whole affair with my glasses. 
And how many of those poor Germans 
did you kill?" 



24 THE FLEDGLING 

"I did not wait to count, my colonel." 

"I will tell you, then; six escaped, out 
of thirty-eight — most remarkable rifle- 
fire I remember seeing. It sounded almost 
like a mitrailleuse at work. How many in 
your patrol? Five? Remarkable! Remark- 
able! Eh bien, good day, sergeant." 

"He was a type not too severe," re- 
marked the ex-corporal, in telling the 
tale; "in short, un bon gargon." 

This is the highest compliment a poilu 
can pay his officer; in fact, I once heard 
an ancient Territorial say it irreverently 
of Marshal Joffre, whom he had known 
in younger days, somewhere in the Orient. 

Jean is at home in several languages, 
speaking perfectly French, German, Ital- 
ian, and Spanish. I usually chat with him 
in the last, as in it I get the fine points 
of his narrative better than in French. 
His German was the means of getting 
him into an adventure such as very few 
men in the war have experienced. I can- 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 25 

not, of course, vouch for the truth of 
what follows, but I have no reason to 
doubt his word, and know him to be 
capable of any foolhardy rashness. Such 
a thing would be impossible at the present 
time. 

One dark night, shortly after midnight 
Jean — on a solitary patrol — was lying 
just outside the wire, about ten metres 
from the German trench, listening to 
locate the sentries. There was a faint 
starlight. Suddenly a whisper came from 
beyond the wire, a low voice speaking in 
broken French. 

"Why do you lie so quiet, my friend? 
I saw you crawl up and have watched 
you ever since. I don't want to shoot 
you; I am a Bavarian." 

"Good-evening, then," Jean whispered 
back in his perfect German. 

"So," said the sentry, "you speak our 
language. Wait a moment, till I warn 
the rest of my squad, and I will show 



26 THE FLEDGLING 

you the way through the wire; there are 
no officers about at this hour." 

Probably not one man in a thousand 
would have taken such a chance, but he 
did, and ten minutes later was standing 
in the trench in a German cloak and 
fatigue cap (in case of passing officers), 
chatting amiably with a much interested 
group of Bavarian soldiers. They gave 
him beer, showed him their dugouts, and 
arranged a whistle signal for future visits, 
before bidding him a regretful good-night. 
"We are Bavarians," they said; "w T e like 
and admire the French, and fight only 
because we must." 

With characteristic good sense, Jean 
went at once to his captain the following 
morning and told him the whole story. 
The officer knew and trusted him and 
said without hesitation, "Go as often as 
you want, and keep your ears open." 

So he made many a midnight crawl 
through the wires, after whistling the 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 27 

soft signal. He carried with him each 
time a few litres of wine (a great luxury 
to the German soldiers), and in return 
they took him on long excursions through 
their trenches. Once he was in the German 
third line, more than a mile back. The 
sector was a very quiet one, though the 
trenches were close together, and one 
morning a crude arrow dropped into the 
French trench, bearing a note to Jean. 

"Get into your dugouts at five this 
afternoon," it read; "there will be a bom- 
bardment, but no attack, we hope." 

Another time, after a French bom- 
bardment, a similar note dropped in: 
"Don't send so many torpedoes — shells 
are all right, but your torpedoes have 
ruined some of our best sleeping-places. 
Remember we are not Prussians, but 
Bavarians." 

Jean is just now back from a permission. 
He went away a reckless, jolly sort of an 
adventurer, and has come back sober, 



28 THE FLEDGLING 

serious, and tremendously in love. He 
told me a little about it, as we sat together 
in my dugout (I have a private one now, 
with a stove, a tiny window sticking up 
discreetly six inches above ground, and 
pictures on the walls), and the tale is so 
typical of war-time France that I can't 
resist telling it to you. 

They had carried on quite a corre- 
spondence, as godmother and godson, 
before the longed-for permission came; 

and when A , with her parents, of 

course, met him at the train, she seemed 
like an old friend. She is charming, as I 
know from her photograph, and sturdy 
brown Jean, togged out in his special per- 
mission uniform, with his neat shoes, 
bright leather puttees and belt, kepi de 
fantaisie, and gold sergeant's wound- and 
service-stripes, looks every inch a soldier 
of France. At the end of the second day, 

he was walking with A and could 

contain himself no longer. 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 29 

"Mademoiselle," he said, "I cannot, 
as a man of honor, stay here longer. I 
love you, — there, I have said it, — but 
I am penniless, and after the war shall 
have only what I can earn. Your father, 
on the other hand, is the most important 
merchant in this district — so you see it 
would (even if you were willing) be quite 
impossible for me to ask for your hand. 
I can never thank you enough for your 
kindness to a poor soldier; it has given 
me a glimpse of Paradise." 

That evening, as he sat in his room, 
trying to make up an excuse to give the 
old people for leaving, the girl's mother 
came in, saying that she understood he 
was going, and was much hurt to think 
that her house had not pleased him. 
Then the old gentleman rushed in, ra- 
diant with smiling good humor. 

"But hush, maman," he cried, "I 
know all. Also I know a man when I see 
one. You love our little A , eh, ser- 



30 THE FLEDGLING 

geant? Well, what of it? And you are 
poor — well, what of that? When we old 
ones are gone, she will have everything — 
she is all we have, since Louis was killed 
at the Marne. You are a type that I love, 
my boy — out there at the front, helping 
to push the Boche out of France; do you 
suppose I would not rather have you for 
a son-in-law than some sacre espece of a 
rich embusque, riding by in his limousine?" 

Rather superb, I think. 

So, as an engaged man, he is making 
a poor attempt to be cautious. Also, he 
has a frightful case of cafard, that mys- 
terious malady of the trenches, which is 
nothing but concentrated homesickness 
and longing for the sight of one's women 
folk, sweethearts, sisters, mothers. A cou- 
ple of days ago, he came to me with a bril- 
liant idea. 

"See, Chariot," he said, "I have a 

scheme. You know Lieutenant P , 

chief of the corps franc — tell him of me, 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 31 

that I can speak German and can take 
prisoners, and tell him to ask my captain 
to detach me for the next coup de main." 

To understand this, you must know 
that a coup de main is a raid, made after 
a brief artillery preparation, on the enemy 
trenches, not with the idea of gaining 
ground, but simply to get a few prisoners 
for information regarding regiments, and 
so forth. In the French army such raids 
are made by special selected companies 
of each regiment, who have no routine 
duty and get eight days' special leave 
after each raid that results in prisoners. 
These men are termed "corps franc." As 
you can see, Jean thought this a quick 
way to get back to his fiancee. 

While we talked, by a freak of luck, 
who should knock at my door but Lieu- 
tenant P , chief of our local corps 

franc, a very good friend and one I am 
proud to have. He is the perfect quin- 
tessence of a French subaltern, — twenty- 



32 THE FLEDGLING 

six years old, slight, wiry, and handsome; 
an Anglophile in everything relating to 
sport, as exquisite in dress and person 
as Beau Brummell, and as recklessly 
brave as Morgan's buccaneers. He has 
risen from the ranks, wears a gold bracelet, 
and has every decoration that a French 
soldier or officer can get, including the 
red ribbon. His Croix de Guerre has seven 
citations, and he has been five times 
wounded. He took to Jean at once, saying 
that he needed an interpreter for a raid 
which was coming in two or three days, 
and promised to see the captain about it 
at once. 

"Better come with us," he said to me, 
whimsically. "I want to run down to 
Paris next week, and if the sergeant here 
and I don't get a prisoner or two, it will 
be because there are none left in the first 
line. Come on — you'll see some fun!" 

"But," I said, "what is there in it for 
me? I'm ruined if I'm caught in any such 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 33 

escapade, and in any case I get no per- 
mission." 

"Oh, we'll fix that. Maybe you'd get 
a nice little wound like my last one; and 
if not, I'm an expert with grenades; I 
think I could toss one so you would just 
get an eclat or two in the legs — good for 
a week in Paris." 

I thanked him without enthusiasm and 
declined. 

The sequel to this came last night as 
I lay reading in my bunk. The evening 
had been absolutely quiet, not a rifle- 
shot along the trenches, until suddenly, 
about 10.30, the batteries set up their 
sullen thumping, mingled with the thud 
of exploding aerial torpedoes. 

To my ears, concentrated artillery fire 
— not too far off — has a strangely mourn- 
ful sound — heavy, dull, and fitful, like a 
dark thunderstorm in Dante's hell. The 
bombardment lasted exactly forty min- 
utes, then absolute silence except for an 



34 THE FLEDGLING 

occasional pistol-shot (no one uses rifles 
in raids), and once more the sudden 
stammer of a mitrailleuse. As I lay there, 
safe in my warm bunk, I thought of 

gallant little P and jolly old lovelorn 

Jean, perhaps at that moment stealing 
through torn German wire with a brace 
of prisoners ahead of them, crouching low 
each time a star-shell sent up its warning 
trail of sparks, — or perhaps — 

To-morrow, when I go back to the 
village for two days' rest, I shall look for 
them. 

April 10, 1917 

I am writing this in a new post of ours 
— a village several kilometres from the 
lines, where there are still civilians. As 
the hospital is very noisy at night, and 
one would have to sleep in a barrack, 
packed in among the wounded, I have 
arranged with a motherly old woman 
(patronne of the local cafe) to let me 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 35 

have her spare room. I found an old cow- 
bell and by an arrangement of strings and 
hooks have rigged it so that it can be rung 
at night from the street below. Talk about 
luxury! I have a real bed (about five feet 
long) with sheets, pillows, and a feather- 
bed that reaches from feet to waist. When 
a night call comes, the bell tinkles, I leap 
out of bed, pull on breeches and coat and 
high felt "arctics," and in three minutes 
am off. 

As there are no men about, I have 
been (in odd moments) splitting wood 
and moving the heavy beer and wine 
casks as required — work really far too 
heavy for women. The old lady, in re- 
turn, often invites me in for a cup of 
steaming coffee with a dash of schnapps, 
and to-day she asked me to a family 
dinner — a superb civilian meal of ham 
and boiled potatoes and home-made chou- 
croute. The latter must be tasted to be 
appreciated. She is quite bitter about a 



36 THE FLEDGLING 

branch of the Y.M.C.A. — called Foyer 
du Soldat — just opened here, which, with 
its free movies, papers, and so forth, has 
lured away much of her trade. "I pay a 
heavy license tax," she says, "and they 
pay nothing — nothing." 

Useless to try to explain to the good 
old soul that the innocent must suffer 
in order that virtue shall triumph — or 
in other words, that the fantassin shall 
have amusement without beer. I com- 
forted her with the regrettable truth 
that her boys will all be back when the 
novelty is worn off. 

A great many of the men here are 
muleteers from the Spanish and Italian 
borders. Where the country is hilly and 
trails constitute the shortest route to the 
trenches, the French use a great many 
pack-mules to carry up provisions, am- 
munition, and supplies. A Western packer 
would be interested in their methods. 
Each mule has its master, who packs it, 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 37 

washes it, feeds it, and on the march 
walks ahead, leading it by a rope. The 
pack-saddles and rigging are wonderful — 
they must be when one considers that 
the mules often carry three hundred 
pounds twenty miles a day, and sore 
backs are unknown. 

A mule 's a mule, however, wherever 
you meet him — these are just the same 
"ornery" brutes we have at home. Their 
effect on the explosive southern French 
temperament is sometimes ludicrous. I 
stopped the other day to ask the way 
of a mule-skinner who was limping de- 
jectedly ahead of his charge — the rest 
of the train was far ahead. After putting 
me on the road, he leaned wearily against 
a tree and explained that in all the world 
there was probably not another mule like 
his. It had kicked him yesterday, it had 
bitten him severely this morning, and 
just now, while he adjusted the pack, it 
had kicked him on the hip, so that in all 



38 THE FLEDGLING 

likelihood he would limp for life. While 
he talked, the mule sidled over, with 
drooping eyelids and sagging ears, and 
planted one foot firmly on the unfortu- 
nate Frenchman's toes. The whole thing 
seemed to have been done by accident — 
I could almost see the dotted line of inno- 
cence running from the mule's sleepy eye 
off into space. Without a word, the man 
set his shoulder against the mule, forced 
its weight off his foot, and tenderly in- 
spected the injured part. Then, hands on 
hips, he regarded the mule with a long 
stare of dramatic contempt. 

"Wouldst thou kill me, sacre espece of 
a camel?" he said at last; "well, death 
would be better than this. Come, here 
lam!" 

The day before yesterday, when I was 
out at one of our posts on the front, an 
Austrian 88 mm. shell fell in a crowd of 
mules and their drivers. Fortunately no 
one was hurt (by one of the freaks of 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 39 

shells), but three mules were killed by 
the splinters. That night, with some mis- 
givings, I tried a steak from the hind- 
quarter of a five-year-old mule. It was 
bully. When you come to think of it, a 
mule is just as good food as a steer. 

A week ago I was waiting at a front 
post for some wounded, when a mule 
train came by, packed with the huge 
winged aerial torpedoes so much in vogue 
just now. Each mule carried four of these 
truly formidable things. As the last mule 
passed, he slipped on the muddy slope, 
his feet flew out, and down he came with 
a whack, torpedoes and all. You ought 
to have seen us scatter, — officers, men, 
and mule-drivers, — like fragments of a 
bursting shell. As the mule showed signs 
of struggling, we had to rush back and 
gingerly remove the load before helping 
him up. 

These torpedoes play a great part in 
war nowadays. They are cheap to man- 



40 THE FLEDGLING 

ufacture, carry an enormous bursting 
charge, and — shot out of small mortar- 
like guns, into which the steel or wooden 
"stem" of the torpedo is inserted — 
have a range of six or seven hundred yards. 
On days of attack you can see them, like 
huge black birds, soar slowly up from be- 
hind the trenches, hang poised for an 
instant, and dart down to make their for- 
midable explosion, which sends clouds of 
debris, timber, and dirt, high into the 
air. Their fragments are very bad — 
long, thin, jagged things that come whiz- 
zing by and inflict terrible wounds. Many 
of them are equipped with "trailers," 
which outline their course in a shower of 
crimson sparks; and on nights of attack 
the sky is scored with their fiery trails. 

A night attack is a wonderful thing to 
see: the steady solemn thunder of the 
guns, the sky glaring with star-shells and 
trails, the trenches flaming and roaring 
with bursting shell. It is like a vast natu- 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 41 

ral phenomenon, — Krakatoa or Mont 
Pelee, — too vast and cataclysmic to 
be man's handiwork; and yet, into the 
maelstrom of spouting flames, hissing 
steel, shattering explosions, insignificant 
little creatures like you and me will pres- 
ently run — offering, with sublime cour- 
age, their tender bodies to be burned and 
pierced and mangled. To me that is war's 
one redeeming feature — it brings out in 
men a courage that is of the spirit alone — 
above all earthly things. 

April 23, 1917 
I am sitting again in the little post I 
told you about in my last letter. The old 
lady is tidying up the cafe, the early 
morning sun is shining in gayly through 
the many-paned windows, and outside, 
along the picket-line, the mules are squeal- 
ing and kicking while they have their 
morning bath. Pretty soon I shall go out 
foraging for a brace of eggs, and with 



42 THE FLEDGLING 

these, a piece of cheese, and some coffee 
shall make my dejeuner. 

The local barrack is the only one I 
have found where one simply cannot eat, 
as the cook and his kitchen are unspeak- 
able. Unless he has been caught out in a 
shower, he has certainly gone without a 
bath since the war started. After a glance 
at him and at his kitchen even the most 
callous poilu rebels. 

We have now, attached to our section 
as mechanic, a French private who is 
rather an unusual type — a rich manu- 
facturer in civil life, who, through some 
kink of character, has not risen in the 
army. He put in a year in the trenches 
and then, being middle-aged, was put 
behind the lines. He speaks English, is 
splendidly educated, and has traveled 
everywhere, but is too indifferent to 
public opinion ever to make an officer, 
or even a non-com. In his factory he 
had a packer, earning seven francs a 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 43 

day, who was also mobilized, and who 
has now risen to the rank of lieutenant. 
Think of the gulf between a poilu and a 
French officer, with his authority, his 
galons and superb red-and-gold hat, and 
then consider that this lieutenant's idea 
of a permission is to go home, put on his 
oldest clothes, and spend the seven days 
working at his old job of packing and 
heading barrels. It takes France to pro- 
duce this sort of thing. 

The siege warfare to which, owing to 
strategic reasons, we are reduced in our 
part of the lines, with both sides playing 
the part of besieged and besiegers, gives 
rise to a curious unwritten understanding 
between ourselves and the enemy. Take 
the hospital corps, their first-aid posts 
and ambulances. The Germans must 
know perfectly well where the posts are, 
but they scarcely ever shell them — not 
from any humanitarian reason, but be- 
cause if they did, the French would 



44 THE FLEDGLING 

promptly blow theirs to pieces. It is a 
curious sensation to live in such a place, 
with the knowledge that this is the only 
reason you enjoy your comparative safety. 
Likewise our ambulances. I often go over 
a road in perfectly plain view of the 
Boche, only a few hundred yards distant, 
and though shells and shrapnel often 
come my way, I am confident none of 
them are aimed at me. The proof of it is 
that no one has ever taken a pot-shot at 
me with rifle or machine-gun, either one 
of which would be a sure thing at the 
range. The other day an officer invited 
me down to see his newly completed ob- 
servatory — a cunningly built, almost in- 
visible stronghold on the crest of a hill, 
which commanded a superb view of the 
trenches and German territory behind 
them. It chanced to be an afternoon of 
unusual interest. The trenches, about 
eight hundred yards distant, were spread 
like a map beneath us, — a labyrinth of 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 45 

zigzag ditches and boyaux, — all cun- 
ningly laid out on principles which I have 
been studying. With the powerful glasses 
lent me, I could make out the thickets of 
wire before the first lines. A heavy bom- 
bardment was in progress, and all along 
the lines, as far as the eye could see, 
clouds of smoke and earth were springing 
up and settling slowly down. Not a living 
being was in sight. Far off to the south, 
a flock of observation balloons floated 
motionless, high in air, like fat, hovering 
birds. Suddenly the man beside me, who 
had been staring through his glasses at a 
twenty-acre patch of woods a couple of 
miles away, gave an excited exclamation. 
"I have spotted it — the new battery of 
heavy guns that has been annoying us; 
they were too bold, for once." 

Sure enough, I thought I made out a 
thin wisp of smoke trailing among the 
tree-tops at the south end of the wood. 

The officer muttered a string of ca- 



46 THE FLEDGLING 

balistic instructions into his telephone 
receiver and motioned me to watch. A 
minute later, a battery of French heavy 
guns behind us began their deep, cough- 
ing thumps, sending enormous shells 
hurtling overhead with the pulsing rush 
of an express train, crescendo and dimin- 
uendo. The first shell fell short, show- 
ering the trees with earth and debris — 
the salvos that followed obscured the 
whole wood in clouds of smoke, broken 
branches, and dust. Twenty minutes of 
this before the battery went silent again. 
A final tremendous explosion, eclipsing 
all that had gone before, seemed to shake 
the trees to their roots. 

"That will hold them for a while," 
said my friend exultantly, as he tele- 
phoned the news back to his battery; 
"we must have hit their magazine of 
propelling charges." 

Next day I was sitting at lunch in 
our mess, distant about three hundred 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 47 

yards from the observatory, when a 
series of heavy, racking explosions made 
the windows rattle. There is a distinct 
difference between the sound of a gun 
and that of a bursting shell. The first 
is a cracking bang, or bourn, as the French 
say. The latter is a racking, dwelling 
roar — drawn out, if such a thing can be 
said of an explosion. Shells were burst- 
ing somewhere close to us — many of 
them. When I went outside I could hear, 
clear and waspish above the din, the 
pinging of splinters whizzing overhead, 
and the occasional crackle of a lopped-off 
branch. After half an hour of this, a man 
came panting up with the bad news that 
the new observatory was completely de- 
molished. There you have the inner work- 
ings of siege-war; the Boches, with un- 
canny craft, knew of the observatory, let 
the French complete it, and might have 
let it alone, had it not been instrumental 
in destroying their battery. That led 



48 THE FLEDGLING 

them into their indiscreet action, for the 
French, in retaliation, promptly wiped off 
the map the most important German 
observatory — an elaborate affair whose 
exact location they had long known. This 
time the Boche did not dare retaliate. 
And so it goes. 

There is a crack French gun-pointer 
near here who has brought down seven 
enemy planes in the past two months 
— a remarkable record in this quiet 
district. The last one fell close to one 
of our posts — its two passengers, Ger- 
man lieutenants, were dead, but scarcely 
marked by their drop into a snow-drift. 
One of them, a handsome young chap, with 
a little blond mustache, wore a gold brace- 
let, and in his pocket was a letter from 
his mother, accusing him of being an 
ungrateful son, who had only written 
twice in six months. Rather pathetic. 
There is a sort of chivalry in the air 
service which is a relief in the sordid 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 49 

monotony of this war. A German plane 
was crippled a while ago, and had to 
volplane down smack into a parade- 
ground where a French regiment was at 
drill. The soldiers rushed out to make 
prisoners of the two German officers, 
who were not a hundred yards up; but 
the latter, with indomitable courage, 
loosed their Spandaus on the crowd, and 
were promptly riddled with bullets by 
the reluctant French. They received a 
funeral in accordance with their splendid 
death. 

The code of the Prussian officer is 
never to surrender; but of course all 
cannot live up to this. In a recent raid, 
a sergeant I know made a prisoner of 
a German captain, who, as they walked 
to the rear, cursed his luck in fluent 
French, saying that he was caught un- 
aware — that an officer never surren- 
dered, but fought to the end. 

"Stop here, my captain, and let us 



50 THE FLEDGLING 

consider this," said the sergeant seriously; 
"there are several articles of your equip- 
ment to which my fancy runs — that 
watch, for example, those leather puttees, 
and that fat purse I saw you change to 
your hip-pocket. Perhaps I can at once 
oblige you and gratify my whim. Sup- 
pose you were suddenly to run — a quick 
shot would save your honor, and me the 
trouble of escorting you back to the rear. 
And I am an excellent shot, je vous as- 
sure." But the German was not interested. 

April 26, 1917 

This afternoon the general of the 
division ordered us to present ourselves 
at headquarters at four o'clock. From 
lunch on there was a great shaving and 
haircutting, brushing and pressing of 
uniforms, and overhauling of shoes and 
puttees. Four o'clock found us lined up 
at the door of the wonderful old chateau, 
and next moment a superb officer, who 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 51 

spoke English, — of the Oxford variety, 
— stepped out, introduced himself all 
around with charming courtesy, took our 
names, and ushered us in. 

The general, a hawk-faced man of 
sixty, straight and slender as an arrow, 
with sparkling dark eyes, stood sur- 
rounded by his resplendent staff. As each 
name was announced, we walked forward 
to him, saluted and bowed, and shook 
hands. This over, we stepped back and 
mingled with the staff officers, who dis- 
played a wonderful trick of making us feel 
at home in the first stiffness. Presently 
orderlies brought in champagne and 
glasses, and when every one had his glass 
in hand the buzz stopped while the general 
spoke. 

"Your country, gentlemen," he said, 
"has done France the honor of setting 
aside this day for her. It is fitting that 
I should ask you here, in order to tell 
you how much we appreciate America's 



52 THE FLEDGLING 

friendship, which you and your com- 
rades have been demonstrating by actions 
rather than words. I am an old man, but 
I tell you my heart beat like a boy's 
when the news came that the great Sister 
Republic — united of old by ideals of 
human liberty — had thrown in her lot 
with ours. I ask you to drink with me to 
the future of France and America — the 
sure future. You have seen France: our 
brave women, ready to make any sacri- 
fices for the motherland; our little soldiers, 
invincible in their determination. Let us 
drink then to France, to America, and to 
the day of ultimate victory, which is com- 
ing as surely as the sun will rise to- 
morrow." 

As he ceased, he stepped forward to 
touch glasses with each of us, — the 
invariable French custom, — and next 
moment a magnificent Chasseur band, 
outside on the terrace, crashed into the 
" Star-Spangled Banner." Quite thrilling, 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 53 

I assure you. Later, we strolled through 
the fine old gardens, chatting with the 
officers while the band played. The gen- 
eral, while the most military man imagin- 
able, has a very attractive brusque affa- 
bility. We are a good-sized crowd as 
Americans run, and the French, who 
average shorter and stockier, never cease 
to wonder at our height. The old chap 
grabbed three or four of us by the shoul- 
ders and lined us up. 

"Mais vous etes des gaillards," he 
said, smiling; "see, I am five or six 
centimetres shorter than any of you. 
But wait, we have a giant or two." 

With that he called over a grinning 
captain and pulled him back to back 
with our biggest man, whom he topped 
by a full inch. 

"But, my general," laughed the of- 
ficer, "it is not good to be so tall — too 
much of one sticks out of a trench." 

The owner of the chateau — a stately 



54 THE FLEDGLING 

woman of fifty, proud of her name, her 
race, and her country, and an angel from 
heaven to the sick and poor for miles 
around — is an example of the kind of 
patriotism of which, I fear, we are in 
need. Her husband is dead; when the war 
broke out she had a daughter and two 
sons — gallant young officers whose brief 
lives had been a constant source of satis- 
faction and pride to their mother. The 
elder was killed at the Marne, and a while 
ago, the younger, her special pet, was 
killed here in an attack. A woman of 
her kind, to whom the continuance of 
an old name was almost a religion, could 
undergo no harder experience. At the 
grave-side she stood erect and dry-eyed, 
with a little proud smile on her lips, as 
her last boy was buried. "Why should I 
weep?" she asked some one who would 
have comforted her; "there is nothing 
finer my boys could have done if they 
had lived out their lives." Her heart must 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 55 

be very nearly broken in two, but never 
a sign does she give; going about among 
her hospitals and peasant families as 
cheerful, interested, even gay, as if her 
only cares were for others. There is true 
courage for you ! 

To-day I went to a new post for some 
sick men, and who should be waiting for 
me but my friend Jean, of whom I wrote 
you before ! His company has been trans- 
ferred to this place. It was great to see 
his grinning face and to chatter Spanish 
with him. As the sick men had not fin- 
ished lunch, Jean asked me to his mess, 
and we had a jolly meal with his pals. I 
have had to give up wine, as it seems to 
blacken our teeth horribly (all of us have 
noticed it, and we can trace it to no other 
source), and the Frenchmen can't get 
over the joke of seeing one drink water 
— extraordinary stuff to drink ! All right 
to run under bridges or for washing pur- 
poses, but as a beverage — a quaint Amer- 



56 THE FLEDGLING 

ican conceit, handed down no doubt from 
the red aborigines — les peaux rouges in- 
digenes — of our continent. Jean ad- 
mitted that since December, 1914, he 
had not tasted water, and no one else 
could remember the last occasion when he 
had tried it. 

As word had just come from the 
trenches that a wounded man was on 
the way in, I got my helmet and we 
strolled down the boyau to meet the 
stretcher-bearers. It was, to me, a new 
section of the front and very interesting. 
The country is broken and hilly, and the 
lines zigzag about from crest to valley 
in the most haphazard way, which really 
has been painfully worked out to prevent 
enfilading fire. There is scarcely any 
fighting here, as neither side has any- 
thing to gain by an advance, which would 
mean giving up their present artillery 
positions. 

In one place the boyau ran down a 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 57 

steep slope, badly exposed, and Jean 
said, "Follow me on the run!" We 
sprinted for twenty yards, and next 
moment, tat-tat-tat-tat came from the 
Boches, and little spurts of dust shot 
up behind us. They can never shoot 
quickly enough to hurt any one at this 
point, Jean said, but after all, "You 
can't blame a fellow for trying." 

At the next turn we came on a train 
of the little grenade donkeys — so small 
that they make the tiniest Mexican 
burro seem a huge clumsy brute. They 
do not show above the shallowest trench, 
and each one carries two panniers full 
of grenades. These last are vicious little 
things of cast iron, checkered so as to 
burst into uniform square fragments, and 
about the size and shape of lemons. They 
make an astonishingly loud bang when 
they go off, and if close enough, as in a 
narrow trench, are pretty bad. At a little 
distance, of course, they are not very 



58 THE FLEDGLING 

dangerous. In the trench warfare — raids, 
infantry attacks, and so forth — they 
seem to have supplanted rifles, just as 
the knife has supplanted the bayonet. 

May 11, 1917 

Sunday, another lovely day. It is 
7 a.m., and already the indefinable Sun- 
day atmosphere has come over the camp. 
The shower-baths are open and strings 
of men are coming and going with towels 
on their arms. Under the trees little 
groups are shaving and cutting one an- 
other's hair, amid much practical joking 
and raillery. 

One becomes very fond of the French 
soldier. Large floods of rhetoric have 
been poured out in describing him, and 
yet nearly every day one discovers in 
him new and interesting traits. Let me 
try to sketch for you a composite pic- 
ture of the French infantryman — the 
fantassin who is winning the war for 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 59 

France. On the whole, I do not see him 
as a boy, but as a sturdy middle-aged 
man — the father of a family. He is 
short and solidly built, with thick calves 
and heavy shoulders. His round head, 
on which the hair is short, crisp, and 
black, is surmounted by a battered blue 
helmet. He wears a long overcoat, looped 
up and buttoned at the sides, showing 
evidence, in several places, of home- 
made patching. It was once horizon blue, 
but has now faded to an ideally pro- 
tective shade of blue-green-gray. About 
his middle is a worn cartridge-belt, and 
from either shoulder, their straps crossing 
on breast and back, hang his musettes — 
bags of brown canvas for carrying extra 
odds and ends, including everything from 
a bottle of wine to a dictionary. On his 
back is his square pack, an affair of for- 
midable weight, to which he has lashed 
his rolled blanket in the form of a horse- 
shoe, points down. Perched on top of this, 



60 THE FLEDGLING 

he carries his gamelle and quart — the 
saucepan and cup which serve for both 
cooking and eating; and beside them 
you perceive with astonishment that 
he has strapped a large German trench 
torpedo — a souvenir for the home folks. 
From his belt hangs the tin box, painted 
horizon-blue, which contains his gas- 
mask, and on the other side his long 
slender bayonet rattles against his thigh. 
A large calloused hand, not too clean, 
holds his shouldered rifle at a most un- 
military angle. The gun has seen hard 
service, the wood is battered, and in 
places bright steel shows through the 
bluing; but look closely and you will 
see that it is carefully greased, and in 
the muzzle a little plug of cloth keeps 
out dust and moisture. In spite of a 
load which would make a burro groan, 
he walks sturdily, whistling a march 
between puffs of a cigarette. Glance at 
his face. The eyes are dark gray, deep- 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 61 

set, and twinkling with good humor; 
they are the clear decisive eyes of a man 
who knows what he wants and has set 
about getting it. The nose is aquiline, 
the mouth strong and ironically humor- 
ous, the unshaven chin positive and 
shapely. It is the face of a breed that 
has been settling to type for many cen- 
turies, a race old in cultivation and 
philosophy. 

What is he in civil life? That is hard 
to say. A lawyer, a farmer, a custom- 
house clerk, a cook — probably a cook; 
most of them seem to be cooks, and 
mighty good ones. Ours at the mess was 
assistant chef at the Savoy, in London, 
and when he has the material (for ex- 
ample a hind-quarter of mule, a few 
potatoes, some dandelions, a tin of lob- 
ster, and an egg) he can turn out a dinner 
hard to equal anywhere — delicious hors 
d'ceuvres, superb soup, roast, saute po- 
tatoes, salad, and so on. 



62 THE FLEDGLING 

The French soldier's one great joy 
and privilege is to grumble. Back in 
billets where he goes to rest, he spends 
the whole day at it — hour after hour, 
over a bock or a litre of wine, he com- 
plains of everything: the food, the uni- 
forms, the trenches, the artillery, the 
war itself. To hear him, one would sup- 
pose that France was on the verge of 
ruin and disintegration. Let some un- 
wise stranger make the slightest criti- 
cism of France, and watch the change. 
The poilu takes the floor with a bound. 
There is no country like France — no 
better citizens or braver soldiers than the 
French. 

"Dis done, mon vieux," he ends tri- 
umphantly, "where would Europe be 
now if it were not for us?" 

To be a French general is a terrible 
responsibility. Their ears must burn con- 
tinually, for every act is criticized, picked 
to pieces, and proved a fatal mistake, 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 63 

daily, in a thousand roadside wine-shops. 
Some celebrity once remarked, that every 
French soldier was a potential general. 
He knew them; he was right. They are no 
carping destructive critics who tear things 
down but suggest no method of build- 
ing up. On the contrary, any chance- 
met poilu will tell you exactly how any 
maneuver or bit of strategy should be 
carried out — from a trench-raid to an 
enveloping movement, which will — he is 
sure of it ! — net fifty thousand prisoners. 
In last night's coup de main they caught 
only three Germans. "Do you know 
why, my friend? I will tell you. Our ar- 
tillery cut the wires all right, and tapped 
on the front trench. Good. After that 
they raised their guns for the barrage, 
but pouf! the Boches had already run 
back to their dugouts in the second or 
third lines. Had the gunners made a 
barrage on the second line from the be- 
ginning, the Germans would have been 



64 THE FLEDGLING 

forced to remain in the first line, and 
instead of three, we would have bagged 
thirty. Oh, well, we get our extra leave 
anyhow, and you should have heard 
them squeal when we dropped grenades 
down their stove-pipes!" 

The French infantryman would drive 
a foreign officer mad until he began to 
understand him and appreciate his splen- 
did hidden qualities. The only thing 
he does without grumbling is fight; and, 
after all, when you come to think of it, 
that is a rather important part of a 
soldier's duty. 

An officer wants a new boyau dug — 
you never heard such grumbling and 
groaning and kicking. Finally, a bit put 
out, he says, — 

"All right, don't dig it, if you are all 
sick and tired, and think I make you 
work simply to keep you busy. It was 
only a whim of mine anyhow — the 
Boches put up a new machine-gun last 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 65 

night, which enfilades the old boyau, 
and when day breaks and you go back to 
the third lines, they will doubtless put a 
dozen of us out of our misery." 

As if by magic the new zigzag trench 
is dug, and the chances are that the 
officer finds a supply of extra-good fire- 
wood in his abri next day. 

In an army like France's, one finds 
many odd birds among the simple sol- 
diers. I was playing "shinny" (we in- 
troduced it and it has become very pop- 
ular in our section) the other evening, 
and, when a soldier took off his coat, 
four thousand francs in bills dropped 
out of the breast pocket. Another eve- 
ning, in a cafe, a roughly dressed soldier 
stood up to give us a bit of music — and 
for an hour the world seemed to stand 
still while one of the greatest violinists 
of France (two years at the front, twice 
wounded, Croix de Guerre, with several 
citations) made us forget that anything 



66 THE FLEDGLING 

existed except a flood of clear throbbing 
sound. It was a rough, drinking crowd — 
a moment before there had been a pan- 
demonium of loud voices and clattering 
plates; but for an hour the listeners were 
still as death — not a whisper, not even 
a hand-clap of applause. It was, I think, 
the finest tribute I ever saw paid a mu- 
sician. And so it goes: one never knows 
what variety of man is hidden beneath 
the uniform of faded horizon-blue. 

June 17, 1917 

At last I am free to sit down quietly 
for a letter to you. It has been a week 
of rather frenzied running about — pass- 
ing examinations, and the like. I arrived 
here in the expectation of taking the first 
boat, crossing the continent, and seeing 
you. 

A talk with some American officers 
changed the whole aspect of affairs and 
showed me that, if I was to be of any use, 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 67 

my job was to remain here. At home, it 
seems, men are a drug on the market — 
the rub is to train them and fit them in. 
Here, on the other hand, they fairly wel- 
come healthy young men — and will 
train us and put us where we will do the 
most good, with the least possible delay. 
Don't let yourself think that flying over 
here is unduly hazardous — a skillful pi- 
lot (as I hope to be) has as good a chance 
of living to a ripe old age as his comrades 
in the infantry. Numbers of them have 
been at it since 1914. The school where 
I hope to be is the finest in the world, 
and the machines are beyond praise. 

Since writing the above, I have re- 
ceived my papers of acceptance in the 
Foreign Legion, conditional on passing 
the French physical tests. I have already 
passed the tests of the Franco-American 
Committee. Before cabling I took all the 
tests. 



68 THE FLEDGLING 

Later 

I have passed the French examination 
and am to leave for the school in a day 
or two. I have been lucky ! 

It was interesting at the Paris re- 
cruiting office. I stood in line with dozens 
of other recruits for the Foreign Legion — 
all of us naked as so many fish, in the 
dirty corridor, waiting our turns. Each 
man had a number: mine was seven 

— lucky, I think! Finally the orderly 
shouted, "Numero sept," and I separated 
myself from my jolly polyglot neigh- 
bors, marched to the door, did a demi-tour 
a gauche, and came to attention before a 
colonel, two captains, and a sergeant. 

"Name, Nordhoff, Charles Bernard — 
born at London, 1887 — American citizen 

— unmarried — no children — desires 
to enlist in foreign Legion for duration 
of war — to be detached to the navigat- 
ing personnel of the Aviation," read the 
sergeant, monotonously. In two minutes 



A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 69 

I had been weighed, measured, stetho- 
scoped, ears and eyes tested, and passed. 

The colonel looked at me coldly and 
turned to the captain. 

"Not so bad, this one, hein? He has 
not the head of a beast." 

I bowed with all the dignity a naked 
man can muster, and said respectfully, 
"Merci, mon colonel." 

"Ah, you speak French," he rejoined 
with a smile; "good luck, then, my 
American." 



II 

THE FLEDGLING 

Here at Avord there are about seventy- 
five Americans of every imaginable sort — 
sailors, prize-fighters, men of the Foreign 
Legion, and a good scattering of Univer- 
sity men. As good a fellow as any is H , 

formerly a chauffeur in San Francisco. 
He is pleasant, jolly, and hard-working, 
with an absurdly amiable weakness for 
" crap-shooting," in which he indulges at 
all times, seconded by an American darky 
who is a pilot here — and a good one. 

I can hear them as I write, snapping 
their fingers as the dice roll: "Come on 
'leben — little seben, be good to me! 
Fifty days — little Phoebe — fever in 
the South! Read 'em and weep! Ten 
francs — let 'er ride. I'll fade you!" 
The crap-shooting circle is always either 



THE FLEDGLING 71 

stuffed with banknotes or reduced to a 
few sous — which latter predicament is a 
bit serious here, where we have to pay 
eight to ten francs a day to get sufficient 
nourishing food. 

We sleep in barracks, about twenty 
to the room, on cots with straw mat- 
tresses. All days are pretty much alike. 
At 3 a.m. a funny little Annamite China- 
man, with betel-blackened teeth, comes 
softly in and shakes you by the shoulder 
in an absurdly deprecating way. You 
reach for your tin cup, and he pours out 
a quarter-litre of fearful but hot liquid, 
somewhat resembling coffee. Then a cigar- 
ette in bed, amid drowsy yawns and 
curses; a pulling on of breeches, golf- 
stockings, and leather coats; a picking 
up of helmets, and a sleepy march to the 
bureau, under the wind-gauges, barom- 
eters, and the great red balls that show 
the passing side (right or left) for the day. 

"Rassemblement! Mettez-vous sur 



72 THE FLEDGLING 

quatre!" barks the adjutant, and off we 
go to the field. There till nine, or till the 
wind becomes too strong — each man 
taking his sortie of ten minutes as his 
name is called. Back about ten; then a 
lecture till eleven, a discussion after that, 
and the first meal of the day. Sleep after- 
wards till three or three-thirty; then a 
bath, a shave, brush teeth, and clean up 
in general. At five, assembly again, the 
same march, the same lessons till nine; 
then a meal, a smoke, and to bed at 
eleven. 

It has been a bit strenuous this past 
month, getting accustomed to this life, 
which is easy, but absurdly irregular. 
Up at 3.30 a.m., and never to bed before 
11 p.m. Meals snatched wherever and 
whenever possible. Some sleep by day is 
indispensable, but difficult in a barrack- 
room with twenty other men, not all of 
whom are sleepy. This, together with 
fleas and even more unwelcome little 



THE FLEDGLING 73 

nocturnal visitors, has made me rather 
irregular in my habits, but now I have 
got into a sort of regime — four and a 
half hours of sleep at night, some sleep 
every afternoon, and decent meals. Also 
I have discovered a sort of chrysanthe- 
mum powder, which, with one of the 
"anti" lotions, fairly ruins my small 
attackers. Baths, thank Heaven! I can 
get every day — with a sponge and soap. 
There is no real hardship about this life — 
it is simply a matter of readjusting one's 
self to new conditions and learning where 
and what to eat, how to sleep, how to get 
laundry done, and so forth. 

This school is superb. I shall have the 
honor of being one of the last men in the 
world trained on the famous Bleriot mon- 
oplane — obsolete as a military plane, 
but the best of all for training, because 
the most difficult. In spite of the fact that 
from the beginning to the end one is alone, 
it is said to be the safest of all training, 



74 THE FLEDGLING 

because you practically learn to fly in the 
"Penguins" before leaving the ground; 
and also because you can fall incredible 
distances without getting a bruise. 

In practically all of the French planes 
the system of control is the same. You 
sit on cushions in a comfortable lit- 
tle chair — well strapped in, clothed in 
leathers and helmet. At your left hand 
are two little levers, one the mixture, 
the other the throttle. Your right con- 
trols the manche-a-balai, or cloche — a 
push forward causes the machine to point 
downward (pique) and a pull back makes 
it rise. Moving it sideways controls the 
ailerons, or warps the wings — if you tip 
left, you move the cloche right. Your feet 
rest on a pivoted bar which controls the 
rudder. 

To rise, you head into the wind, open 
the throttle (steering with great care, as 
a little carelessness here may mean a 



THE FLEDGLING 75 

wrecked wing or a turn over), and press 
forward the cloche: you roll easily off; 
next moment, as the machine gathers 
speed, the tail rises, and you pull back 
the stick into the position of ligne de vol. 
Faster and faster you buzz along, — 
thirty, thirty-five, forty miles an hour, — 
until you have flying speed. Then a 
slight backward pull on the cloche, and 
you are in the air. 

I made my first flight in a small two- 
place machine of the fighting type — 
a Nieuport. It is a new sensation, — one 
which only a handful of Americans have 
experienced, — to take the air at seventy- 
five or eighty miles an hour, in one of 
these little hornets. The handling of them 
is incredibly delicate, all the movements 
of the stick could be covered by a three- 
inch circle. A special training is required 
to pilot them, but once the knack is 
acquired they are superb, except for the 
necessity of landing at sixty or seventy 



76 THE FLEDGLING 

miles an hour. In the air you can do 
anything with them — they will come 
out of any known evolution or position. 

Lately I have been making short low 
flights in a Bleriot, and enjoying it keenly. 
All I know (a mere beginning) I have 
learned entirely alone, and the first time 
I left the ground, I left it alone. They 
simply put you in the successive types of 
machines, with a brief word of instruc- 
tion, and tell you to fly — if you have n't 
the instinct, you are soon put out of the 
school. After your month of preparation 
in "Penguins" and "grass-cutters," the 
first short flight is a great experience. 

My name was at the end of the list, 
so for two hours of increasing tension 
I watched my mates make their debuts. 
We were about a dozen, and there were 
some bad "crashes" before my turn 
came. At last the monitor called me 
and I was strapped in behind the whirl- 
ing stick. The monitor waved his arm, 



THE FLEDGLING 77 

the men holding the tail jumped away, 
and I opened the throttle wide, with 
the manche-a-balai pushed all the way 
forward. Up came the tail; I eased back 
the control bit by bit, until I had her in 
ligne de vol, tearing down the field at 
top speed. Now came the big moment, 
mentally rehearsed a hundred times. With 
a final gulp I gingerly pulled back the 
control, half an inch, an inch, an inch and a 
half. From a buoyant bounding rush the 
machine seemed to steady to a glide, sway- 
ing ever so little from side to side. A 
second later, the rushing green of grass 
seemed to cease, and I was horrified to 
find myself looking down at the land- 
scape from a vast height whence one 
could see distant fields and hangars as 
if on a map. A gentle push forward on 
the manche brought her to ligne de vol 
again ; a little forward, a reduction of gas, 
a pull back at the last moment, and I 
had made my first landing — a beauty, 



78 THE FLEDGLING 

without a bounce. To-night I may crash, 
but I have always the memory of my be- 
ginner's luck — landing faultlessly from 
fully twelve feet ! 

Lack of sleep is our main foe — a 
hard one to combat, as all sorts of other 
things develop as its followers; one has 
simply to learn to sleep in any odd mo- 
ments of the day or night. 

I may still "fall down" and be "radi- 
ated" to an observation or bombing 
plane (which is of course no disgrace); 
but on the whole I have good hopes of 
making a fighting pilot. Flying (on a 
Bleriot monoplane) is by no means as 
easy as I had supposed. It took us four 
weeks to learn to run one at full speed, in a 
straight line, on the ground. The steering 
and handling of the elevators (which regu- 
late height of tail) are extremely tricky, 
and many men are thrown out or sent to 
other schools (Caudron, Farman, or Voisin) 
for inaptitude or "crashes" at this stage. 



THE FLEDGLING 79 

Then comes the stage of low straight- 
away flights, when you leave the ground 
fast and in correct line of flight, and 
have to land smoothly. Make no mis- 
take — • landing any kind of an aero- 
plane is hard, and to land the fast fighting 
machines is a very great art, which forty 
per cent of picked young men never ac- 
quire. They are so heavy for their sup- 
porting area, that the moment they slow 
down to less than seventy -five or eighty 
miles an hour they simply fall off on 
a wing (or "pancake"). Even a Bleriot 
requires a good eye and a steady delicate 
touch and judgment to land in decent 
style. You are flying, say, three hundred 
feet up, and wish to land. Forward goes 
your stick, the machine noses down as 
you cut the motor. The ground comes 
rushing up at you until the moment 
comes when you think you should "re- 
dress" — precisely as a plunging duck 
levels before settling among the decoys. 



80 THE FLEDGLING 

If you have gauged it to a nicety, you skim 
over the ground a few yards up, gradually 
losing speed, and settling at last without 
a jar or break in the forward motion. If 
you redress too late, you turn over 
(capoter), or else bounce and fall off on 
a wing. (I have seen men bounce fifty 
feet!) If you redress too high, you lose 
speed too far above the ground, and 
either pique into the ground and turn 
over, fall flat, or crash on one wing. 

The secret of the whole game of learn- 
ing to fly is, I believe, never to get ex- 
cited. I have seen beginner after beginner 
smash when he was first sent up to fly. 
They run along the ground, pull back 
the stick, as told, and a moment later 
are so astounded to find themselves 
twenty or thirty feet off the ground that 
they can think of nothing but shutting 
off the throttle. Many crash down tail 
first, with controls in climbing position 
to the last. If they would simply think, — 



THE FLEDGLING 81 

"Ha, old boy, you're in the air at 
last — some thrill, but the main thing 
now is to stay here a bit and then ease 
down without a crash. Ease the stick 
forward — now we have stopped climb- 
ing. Feel that puff — she's tipping, but 
a little stick or rudder will stop that. 
Now pique her down, and reduce the 
gas a notch or two. Here comes the 
ground — straighten her out; too much, 
she's climbing again; there, cut the gas 
— a little more — there — not a bad 
landing for the first try." 

Really there is no system in the world 
like learning alone, but it costs the 
Government, I am told, from $30,000 
to $40,000 to turn out a fighting pilot. 
Three, six, ten machines — costly, deli- 
cate things — are smashed daily in the 
school. Never a word is said, until a man 
smashes one too many, when he is quietly 
sent to the easier double-command school 
of bombardment or observation flying. 



82 THE FLEDGLING 

Some of the fellows are in bad shape 
nervously. Any night in our barracks 
you can see a man, sound asleep, sitting 
up in bed with hands on a set of imaginary 
controls, warding off puffs, doing spirals, 
landings, and the like. It is odd that it 
should take such a hold on their mental 
lives. 

I enjoy hugely flying the old mono- 
plane, especially when I fly home and 
nose her down almost straight for a 
gorgeous rush at the ground. As you 
straighten out, a few yards up, lightly 
as a seagull, and settle on the grass, it 
is a real thrill. 

I have purchased, for twenty-five 
francs, a beautiful soft Russia-leather 
head-and-shoulder gear, lined with splen- 
did silky fur. It covers everything but 
one's eyes, — leaving a crack to breathe 
through, — and is wonderfully warm and 
comfortable. 

I have finally finished the Monoplane 



THE FLEDGLING 83 

School, which is the end of preliminary 
training. There remain spirals, etc., an 
altitude, and a few hundred miles of 
cross-country flying, before I can obtain 
my brevet militaire and have the glory 
of a pair of small gold wings, one on each 
side of my collar. After that I shall have 
seven days' leave (if I am lucky), fol- 
lowed by two or three weeks perfectionne- 
ment on the type of machine I shall fly 
at the front. If I smash nothing from now 
on, I shall have practically my choice of 
"zincs" — a monoplace de chasse, or 
anything in the bombing or observation 
lines. If I break once, I lose my chasse 
machine, and so on, down to the most 
prosaic type of heavy bomber. Only one 
compensation in this very wise but severe 
system — the worse the pilot, the safer 
the machine he finally flies. 

In spite of all my hopes, I had the 
inevitable crash — and in the very last 
class of the school. Landing our Bleriots 



84 THE FLEDGLING 

is a rather delicate matter (especially to 
a beginner), and last week I had the re- 
lapse in landings which so few beginners 
escape, with the result that I crashed on 
my last flight of the morning. I felt 
pretty low about it, of course, but on the 
whole I was not sorry for the experience, 
which blew up a lot of false confidence 
and substituted therefor a new respect 
for my job and a renewed keenness to 
succeed. After that I did better than ever 
before, and made a more consistent type 
of landing. 

Guynemer, the great French "Ace," 
has disappeared, and from accounts of 
the fight one fears that he is dead. What 
a loss to France and to the Allies! the end 
of a career of unparalleled romantic bril- 
liancy. I shall never forget one evening 
in Paris last spring. I was sitting in the 
Cafe de la Paix, under the long awning 
that fronts the Boulevard des Capucines. 



THE FLEDGLING 85 

All Paris was buzzing with Guynemer's 
mighty exploit of the day before — four 
German planes in one fight, two of them 
sent hurtling down in flames within sixty 
seconds. It took one back to the old days, 
and one foresaw that Guynemer would 
take his place with the legendary heroes 
of France, with Roland and Oliver, Arch- 
bishop Turpin, Saint Louis, and Charles 
Martel. 

Presently I looked up. A man was 
standing in the aisle before me — a 
slender youth, rather, dressed in the 
black and silver uniform of a captain 
in the French Aviation. Delicately built, 
of middle height, with dark tired eyes 
set in a pale face, he had the look of 
a haggard boy who had crowded the 
experience of a lifetime into a score 
of years. The mouth was remarkable 
in so young a man — mobile and thin- 
lipped, expressing dauntless resolution. 
On his breast the particolored ribbons 



86 THE FLEDGLING 

of his decorations formed three lines: 
Croix de Guerre, Medaille Militaire, 
Officer of the Legion of Honor, Cross 
of St. George, English Military Cross, 
and others too rare for recognition. 

All about me there arose a murmur 
of excited interest; chairs were pushed 
back and tables moved as the crowd 
rose to its feet. Cynical Swiss waiters, 
with armloads of pink and green drinks, 
halted agape. A whisper, collective and 
distinct, passed along the terrace: "It is 
Guynemer!" 

The day before, over the fiery lines, 
he had done battle for his life; and this 
evening, in the gay security of Paris, he 
received the homage of the people who 
adored him. 

He had been looking for a table, but 
when it became no longer possible to 
ignore the stir, he raised his right hand 
in embarrassed salute and walked quickly 
into the cafe. 



THE FLEDGLING 87 

I spent my ten days' leave in a trip 
to Nice, and used up about half of it in 
getting there. 

The trip south was a martyrdom — 
a long stifling ride to Paris, three days' 
wait there for a reserved place to Mar- 
seilles, a day and a night standing up 
in a corridor from Paris to Marseilles 
(had to give up my seat to an unfortu- 
nate woman with two youngsters), and 
twenty-three hours more in a corridor 
to get to Cannes. On the whole, the 
worst journey I recollect. No stops for 
meals, so we all nearly starved, till I 
finally obtained an armful of bottled beer 
and some sandwiches. 

I sat down on a trunk in the corridor 
and nodded off to sleep, only to be awak- 
ened half an hour later by H F 

(S 's cousin), who stole up with a 

gesture for silence, and pointed at me 
with a shake of his head and a broad grin. 
It must have been rather a rakish tab- 



88 THE FLEDGLING 

leau. On the floor to my left were half a 
dozen empty bottles; on one end of the 
trunk I sat, heavy-eyed and half awake, 
and beside me, sound asleep, with her head 
on my shoulder, was a respectable, very 
attractive, and utterly unknown young 

woman ! C'est la guerre ! I motioned H 

away and promptly went to sleep again. 

In Marseilles I had time for the 
Corniche, to see Monte Cristo's castle, 
and eat a bouillabaisse, which I cannot 
recommend without reserve. With an 
enormous floating population of sailors, 
shipping booming, and streets ablaze at 
night, Marseilles seems far away from 
the war, after the hushed gloom of noc- 
turnal Paris. 

The trials for my military brevet were 
by far the most interesting thing I have 
done in aviation. On finishing the sixty 
horse-power Bleriot class, I was told that 
I would have to do my brevet work on 
a small Caudron biplane, as there were 



THE FLEDGLING 89 

no Bleriots available. A few short flights 
in the Caudron gave me confidence that 
I could handle it; so one rather cloudy 
morning the officer told me to make my 
official altitude — which is merely one 
hour's stay at heights of over seven 
thousand feet. I pulled on my great fur 
combination and fur-lined boots, adjusted 
mittens, helmet, and goggles, and stepped 
into my machine, number 2887, which the 
mechanic had been tuning up. " Coupe, 
plein gaz," he shouted, above the roar 
of a score of motors, and gave the stick 
half a dozen turns. Then, "Contact re- 
duit"; and as I yelled back, "Contact 
reduit," after the old starting formula, 
he gave a quick half turn to the blades. 
Off she went with a roar, all ten cylinders 
hitting perfectly, so I motioned him to 
pull out the blocks from before the wheels. 
A quick rush and a turn headed me into 
the wind, and the next moment the 
starter's arm shot forward. 



90 THE FLEDGLING 

Old 2887 is a bully 'bus. I was off the 
ground and heading up in forty yards. 
It was rather an occasion for a beginner 
who had never before flown over twenty- 
five hundred feet. The little Caudrons, 
of course, are not high-powered, but she 
climbed splendidly. In ten minutes I 
was circling over the camp at thirty- 
eight hundred feet, and in twenty, I had 
reached six thousand, just under the roof 
of the clouds. There was only one blue 
hole through, so up this funnel I climbed 
in decreasing circles, till 1 finally burst 
out into the gorgeous upper sunlight. At 
eight thousand feet I began to float about 
in a world of utter celestial loneliness — 
dazzlingly pure sun, air like the water of 
a coral atoll, and beneath me a billowy 
sea of clouds, stretching away to infinity. 
Here and there, from the cloudy prairies, 
great fantastic mountain ranges reared 
themselves; foothills and long divides, 
vast snowy peaks, impalpable sisters of 



THE FLEDGLING 91 

Orizaba or Chimborazo, and deep gorges, 
ever narrowing, widening, or deepening, 
across whose shadowy depths drove rib- 
bons of thin gray mist. 

Once, as I was sailing over a broad 
canon, I saw, far off in the south, a dark 
moving dot, and knew with a sudden 
thrill that another man like myself, 
astride his gaunt buzzing bird, was ex- 
ploring and marveling at this upper 
dream-world. 

At last the hour was up. I shut off the 
motor and drove downward in a series 
of long easy glides. Going through the 
clouds, one loses all sense of balance and 
direction. It is bizarre and sometimes 
dangerous. You plunge out into the old 
gray world beneath, to find yourself in a 
nose-dive, or off on a wing, or upside 
down — it is all the same in a cloud. 

The balance of the military trials 
consists in spirals, and so forth, and a 
lot of cross-country flying by map and 



92 THE FLEDGLING 

compass. First you make two round 
trips to a place fifty miles away, and 
then two triangular trips of about one 
hundred and fifty miles each. It is very 
easy, if you keep your wits about you 
and have no hard luck. Roads, railroads, 
rivers, woods, and canals are the principal 
guides to follow; towns and cities you 
can only recognize by having counted 
their predecessors, unless there is some 
very prominent building, cathedral or 
factory. A road, from three thousand 
feet, shows as a very straight white line, 
occasionally making angular turns. A 
railroad is a dark gray line, always curv- 
ing gently when it turns. Canals are 
ribbons of water, very straight, between 
twin lines of trees. And so on. You watch 
your compass, to check up the tend of 
roads and railroads, watch your altimeter 
and tachometer (which tells the speed of 
your engine), and above all watch always 
ahead for suitable landing fields, in case 



THE FLEDGLING 93 

of motor trouble. The wind also must be 
borne in mind; its direction can be told 
from smoke. I was lucky and had no 
trouble at all. 

At Nice I ran into many Americans, 
and there were a good many Britishers 
about, recovering from the recent se- 
vere fighting around Passchendaele. They 
are a quiet and agreeable lot — very in- 
teresting when they talk about their 
work, which is seldom. 

One captain had strolled into some 
heavy fighting with no weapon but a 
heavy cane, and with this, walking astride 
of a deep narrow enemy trench, he had 
killed eight Germans ! An Australian cap- 
tain, with the rare ribbon of the V.C. on 
his breast, had gone into a crowded Ger- 
man dugout with one companion, who 
was wounded at the first exchange of 
bombs. Single-handed, he had bombed 
out the Boches, taken forty prisoners back 
single-handed, and returned to bring out 
his wounded brother officer. An epic feat! 



Ill 

FULL-FLEDGED 

Soon after my stay at Nice I went for a 
month to the Combat and Acrobatic 
School of Pau, which completes the most 
dangerous of all the flying training. A 
wonderful experience — somersaults, bar- 
rel-turns, corkscrew dives, every con- 
ceivable aerial caper, and long flights 
daily: skimming the highest peaks of the 
Pyrenees at three hundred feet above 
the snow — trips to Biarritz and along 
the coast, flying ten feet above the waves, 
etc. 

It is hard to say enough in praise of 
the school at Pau — the hundreds of 
splendid machines, the perfect discipline 
and efficiency, the food, the barracks, 
the courteous treatment of pilots by 
officers and instructors. We were twenty 



FULL-FLEDGED 95 

Americans, in a clean airy barrack, with 
an Annamite to make the beds and sweep 
up. The school covers an enormous area 
in the valley of the Gave, just under the 
Pyrenees, and is ideal for an aviation 
center so far as weather conditions go, 
its one drawback being that motor- 
trouble, out of range of the aerodromes, 
means almost inevitably a smash. All 
along the Gave they have the smallest 
fields and the highest hedges I ever saw. 
The climate is superb — like the foothill 
climate of California: cool nights, deli- 
cious days, wonderful dawns and sunsets. 

They started us on the eighteen-metre 
machine, doing vertical spirals, which are 
quite a thrill at first. You go to a height 
of about three thousand feet, shut off the 
motor, tilt the machine till the wings are 
absolutely vertical, and pull the stick all 
the way back. When an aeroplane in- 
clines laterally to over forty-five degrees, 
the controls become reversed — the rudder 



96 THE FLEDGLING 

is then the elevator, and the elevator the 
rudder, so that, in a vertical spiral, the 
farther back you pull the stick, the tighter 
the spiral becomes. You are at the same 
time dropping and whirling in short 
circles. I once did five turns in losing a 
thousand feet of altitude — an unusual 
number, the monitor told me with satis- 
faction. Usually, one loses about three 
hundred feet to each turn, but on my first 
attempt, I lost twenty-one hundred feet 
in three fourths of a turn, because I did 
not pull back enough on the stick. 

After the eighteen-metre spirals we 
were given a few rides on the fifteen- 
metre machine — very small, fast and 
powerful, but a delicious thing to handle 
in the air; and after left and right verti- 
cal spirals on this type, we went to the 
class of formation-flying, where one is 
supposed to learn flying in squadron 
formation, like wild geese. This is ex- 
tremely valuable, but most men take 



FULL-FLEDGED 97 

this chance for joy-riding, as they have 
petrol for three hours, and are responsible 
to no one. 

On my first day in this class I found 
no one at the rendezvous, so I rose to 
about four thousand feet, and headed at 
a hundred miles an hour for the coast. In 
thirty-five minutes I was over Biarritz, 
where my eyes fairly feasted on the salt 
water, sparkling blue, and foam-crested. 
I do not see how men can live long away 
from the sea and the mountains. My 
motor was running like a clock and as I 
was beginning to have perfect confidence 
in its performance, I came down in a long 
coast to the ground, and went rushing 
across country toward the mountains, 
skimming a yard up, across pastures, 
leaping vertically over high hedges of 
poplar trees, booming down the main 
streets of villages, and behaving like an 
idiot generally, from sheer intoxication 
of limitless speed and power. 



98 THE FLEDGLING 

In a few moments I was at the en- 
trance of one of the huge gorges that 
pierce the Pyrenees — the sort of place 
up which the hosts of Charlemagne were 
guided by the White Stag: deep and 
black and winding, with an icy stream 
rushing down its depths. Why not? I 
gave her full gas and whizzed up between 
black walls of rock that magnified enor- 
mously the motor's snarl, up and up 
until there was snow beneath me and 
ahead I could see the sun gleaming on 
the gorgeous ragged peaks. Up and up, 
nine, ten, eleven thousand feet, and I 
was skimming the highest ridges that 
separate France and Spain. Imagine ris- 
ing from a field in Los Angeles, and 
twenty-five minutes later flying over the 
two-mile-high ridges of Baldy and Sheep 
Mountain, swooping down to graze the 
snow, or bounding into the air with 
more speed and ease than any bird. 

At last, as my time was nearly up, I 



FULL-FLEDGED 99 

headed back for Pau. A few minutes 
later, just as I sighted the pygmy groups 
of hangars, my motor gave forth a loud 
bang and a sheet of flame, and several 
chunks of metal tore whizzing through 
the aluminum hood. Automatically, I 
pulled at the lever which closes the gaso- 
line flow and tilted the machine forward 
to keep my speed. Another bang, accom- 
panied by black smoke. " Holy mackerel ! " 
I thought; "this is the end of me! Let's 
see — in case of fire, shut off petrol, open 
throttle, and leave the spark on. Then go 
into a nose-dive." 

Somehow you can't seem to get very 
excited at such moments, — everything 
seems inevitable, — good or bad luck. 
I nose-dived, came out at five thousand 
feet, killed my propeller, and was grati- 
fied to see, on looking behind, that there 
was no more smoke. Starting the motor 
was of course out of the question, as it 
would have promptly taken fire; so I shut 



100 THE FLEDGLING 

off throttle and spark, struck an easy glide, 
and began an anxious search for a field. 
Most of them were no larger than postage- 
stamps, and I knew they were hedged by 
the beastly poplars, but at last I spotted 
a long one, in the direction of the wind, 
though not long enough to afford more 
than a bare chance of avoiding a crash. 
It was the only hope, at any rate; so 
down I coasted in glides and serpentines, 
jockeying to lose height just over the 
trees. As luck would have it, I was a few 
feet low and had to chance jumping the 
trees with none too much speed. The 
splendid stability of the Nieuport saved 
me from a wing-slip, and a moment later 
I landed with a bang in a ditch, break- 
ing one wheel and stopping within ten 
yards of a formidable line of willows. 

I crawled out of my seat and lay down 
in the long grass to rest, as my head 
ached villainously from the too rapid 
descent. Somehow 1 dozed off and was 



FULL-FLEDGED 101 

awakened by the friendly tongue of a 
huge Basque shepherd dog. His mistress, 
a pretty Spanish-speaking peasant girl, 
appeared a minute later, and her family 
were very decent to me. After some hot 
coffee with brandy, and a piece of goat 
cheese, I attended to the formalities and 
went back to camp. 

After formation-flying we went to the 
acrobatic class or "Haute Ecole du Ciel," 
where you are taught to put a machine 
through the wildest kinds of maneuvers. 
This is the most dangerous class in any 
aviation training in France — many ex- 
cellent pilots, whose nerves or stomachs 
would not stand the acrobatics, rest in 
the little cemetery at Pau. Wonderful 
sport, though, if nature intended one for 
that sort of thing! The most dreaded 
thing one does is the spinning nose-dive, 
or vrille (gimlet), which formerly was 
thought invariably fatal. They have now 



102 THE FLEDGLING 

discovered that the small, very strong 
machines will come out of it safely, if the 
rudder is put exactly in the middle and 
the stick pushed forward. 

The instructor in this class was a 
very dandified lieutenant, in a Bond 
Street uniform, and wearing a monocle, 
who lay in a steamer-chair all day, gazing 
up into the sky at the antics of his pupils. 
Around him stood assistants with field- 
glasses, who watched the heavens anx- 
iously, and would suddenly bark out, 
' ' Regardez, mon lieutenant — 1 ' Ameri- 
cain Thompson en vrille." The lieutenant 
would then languidly look up at the 
machine pointed out (they are distin- 
guished by broad stripes, or checker- 
boards, or colors), and, if the "type" up 
above had done well, would remark, 
"Pas mal, celui-la." If some unfortunate 
plunged into the ground and killed him- 
self, the officer would rise gracefully from 
his chair, flick the dust from his sleeve, 



FULL-FLEDGED 103 

and call for the "Black Cat," his special 
"taxi." Jumping in with remarkable 
speed, he rose in a series of the most 
breakneck evolutions, and flew to the 
scene of the accident. In reality, his pose 
is the best in the world, as it keeps the 
pilots gonfles, that is, courageous and 
confident, as opposed to degonfles, or 
scared and nervous. 

I was watching all this from the 
ground, when a monitor unexpectedly 
called out, "Nordhoff, Nordhoff !" 

"Present!" I yelled, as I ran toward 
him. 

"You will take the checker-board," 
he ordered, "rise to twelve hundred me- 
tres, and do one vrille and two upside- 
down turns." 

I admit that I had a slight sinking 
spell as I walked to the machine, a little 
thirteen-metre beauty. (Think of it, only 
thirteen square yards of supporting sur- 
face!) It was all right as soon as I was 



104 THE FLEDGLING 

strapped in and had the motor going. Up 
we went, the "Bebe" climbing like a cat, 
at incredible speed, while I anxiously re- 
peated, again and again, the instructions. 
Two turns of the field gave me my thirty- 
six hundred feet. This was no time to 
hesitate, so, as I reached the required 
spot, away from the sun, I shut off the 
motor, took a long breath, and pulled 
back a bit on the stick. Slower and slower 
she went, until I felt the rather sickening 
swaying that comes with a dangerous loss 
of speed. The moment had come. Gritting 
my teeth, I gave her all the left rudder 
and left stick, at the same moment pull- 
ing the stick all the way back. For an 
instant she seemed to hang motionless — 
then with unbelievable swiftness plunged 
whirling downwards. "Remember, keep 
your eyes inside — don't look out, what- 
ever happens," I thought, while a great 
wind tore at my clothing and whistled 
through the wires. In a wink of time I 



FULL-FLEDGED 105 

had dropped six hundred feet: so I care- 
fully put the rudder in the exact center, 
centered the stick, and pushed it gently 
forward. At once the motion grew stead- 
ier, the wind seemed to abate, and the 
next moment I dared to look out. It was 
over — I was in a steep glide, right side 
up, safe and sound. I had done a vrille 
and come out of it ! A gorgeous sensation ! 
I loved it, and queerly enough my first 

bewildered thought was, "M would 

adore that!" 

Just to show the lieutenant that I was 
having a good time, I buzzed up again 
and did two more vrilles, looking out 
the whole time at the panorama of 
Pyrenees, villages, and river, whirling 
around with the most amazing rapidity. 
Not a thing for bilious or easily dizzy 
people though, as it means horses at the 
walk if you fail to do the right thing at 
exactly the right moment. 

After the acrobatics, we went to classes 



106 THE FLEDGLING 

in machine-gun shooting and combat- 
flying — very interesting and practical, 
but not to be talked about. 

After Pau, I had forty-eight hours' 
leave in Paris, bought a few things I 
needed for the front, and was then sent 
to a place it is forbidden to mention, 
expecting soon to get to flying over the 
lines. 

On New Year's morning, as it was 
snowing hard and there was no flying, 
I sat by a cozy fire, in the house of some 
English people. Curious thing, running 
into them here. They are of the tribe of 
English who wander over the face of the 
earth, and make England what she is. 

The man of the house is an expert on , 

and has pursued his unusual vocation in 
Cuba, Jamaica, Honduras, Guiana, "Por- 
tuguese East" and other parts of Africa, 
as well as in Ceylon and a few other 
places I forget. Here he is now, as ex- 



FULL-FLEDGED 107 

pert for the French. His wife and seven 
children, who speak French, Portuguese, 
Spanish, and Zulu, I think, follow him 
everywhere, and are everywhere equally 
at home. I have tea with them after work, 
and, needless to say, they are a Godsend 
in this desolate place. Let us all pray that 
next New Year's day we shall be thanking 
God for a victorious peace and returning 
to civilian life, never to put on uniforms 
again. The finest uniform of all is the 
old civilian suit — brass buttons and gold 
braid to the contrary. 

For this winter air-work, which is the 
coldest known occupation, I think, this 
is the way we dress. First, heavy flannels 
and woolen socks. Over that, a flannel 
shirt with sleeveless sweater on top, and 
uniform breeches and tunic. Boots and 
spiral puttees (very warm things, if not 
put on too tightly) go on next, and over 
all we pull on a great combination, or 
fur-lined "teddy-bear" suit — waterproof 



108 THE FLEDGLING 

canvas outside. Over our boots we pull 
fur-lined leather flying boots, reaching 
half-way up to our knees. For head-gear, 
a fur-lined leather cap, and around the 
neck, several turns of gray muffler. A 
variety of mask and a pair of "triplex" 
goggles to protect one 's face from the icy 
breeze. With all this, and heavy fur 
gloves, one can keep reasonably warm. 

As the 16th of January was the first 
good flying day for some time, there was 
much activity. After lunch I went to the 
aerodrome just in time to see the combat 
patrol come swooping down. An excited 
crowd was gathered about the first ma- 
chine in, and I learned that one of our 
best pilots had just been brought down 

by a German two-seater, and that H , 

a nineteen-year-old American in our sister 
escadrille here, had promptly brought the 
Hun down. I was proud to think that 
an American had revenged our comrade. 
This makes H 's second German 



FULL-FLEDGED 109 

within a week — a phenomenal record 
for a beginner. He is an unusual young- 
ster, and handles a machine beautifully. 
He seems to have the mixture of dash, 
cold nerve, and caution which makes an 

ace. 

The German fell ten thousand feet 
directly over the trenches, but at the last 
moment managed to straighten out a bit 
and crashed two hundred yards inside his 

lines. H followed him down, and 

gliding over the trenches at one hundred 
feet, saw one German limp out of the 
wreck and wave a hand up at the victor. 

Another American boy had quite an 
exciting time lately when his motor 
went dead far inside the enemy lines. 
Luckily he was high at the time; so he 
flattened his glide to the danger-point, 
praying to be able to cross into friendly 
country. Down he came, his "stick" 
dead, the wind whistling through the 
cables, until close ahead he saw a broad 



110 THE FLEDGLING 

belt of shell-marked desolation, criss- 
crossed by a maze of meaningless trenches. 
The ground was close; automatically he 
straightened out, avoiding a pair of huge 
craters, touched, bumped, crashed into a 
thicket of wire, and turned over. A jab 
at the catch of his belt set him free; but 
the really important thing was whether 
or not he had succeeded in crossing the 
German lines. Wisely enough, he crawled 
to a shell-hole, and from its shelter began 
to reconnoiter warily. Muddy figures be- 
gan to appear from various holes and 
ditches, and at length a soldier who, so 
far as appearances went, might have 
belonged to any army, leaned over the 
edge of the hole and said something in 

French. Young S at that began to 

breathe for the first time in at least a 
quarter of an hour. His discoverer led 
him to a spacious dugout where two 
generals were at lunch — a wonderful 
lunch, washed down with beverages for- 



FULL-FLEDGED 111 

bidden to any but generals. The great 
ones made the corporal welcome, laughed 
themselves ill over his voluble but won- 
derful French, plied him with food and 
good Scotch whiskey, and sent him home 
in one of their superb closed cars. 

Now that so many young Americans 
are beginning to fly in France, I fancy 
that the people at home must wonder 
what sort of a time their sons or brothers 
are having — how they live, what their 
work is, and their play. Most people who 
have an immediate interest in the war 
must by now possess a very fair idea of 
the military aviation training; but of the 
pilot's life at the front I have seen little in 
print. 

I can speak, of course, only of con- 
ditions in the French aviation service; 
but when our American squadrons take 
their places at the front, the life is bound 
to be very similar, because experience 



112 THE FLEDGLING 

has taught all the armies that, to get the 
best results, pilots should be given a 
maximum of liberty and a minimum of 
routine, outside of their duty, which con- 
sists in but one thing — flying. 

Let us suppose, for example, that an 
American boy — we will call him Wilkins, 
because I never heard of a man named 
Wilkins flying — has passed through the 
schools, done his acrobatics and combat- 
work, and is waiting at the great depot 
near Paris for his call to the front. Every 
day he scans the list as it is posted, and 
at last, hurrah! his name is there, fol- 
lowed by mysterious letters and numbers 
— G.C. 17, or S.P.A. 501, or N. 358. He 
knows, of course, that he will have a sin- 
gle-seater scout, but the symbols above 
tell him whether it will be a Spad or a 
Nieuport and whether he is to be in a 
groupe de combat ("traveling circus," 
the British call them) or in a permanent 
fighting unit. 



FULL-FLEDGED 113 

Wilkins is overjoyed to find he has 
been given a Spad, and hastens to pack 
up, in readiness for his train, which 
leaves at 6 p.m. When his order of trans- 
port is given him, he finds that his es- 
cadrille is stationed at Robinet d'Essence, 
in a fairly quiet, though imaginary, 
sector. Before leaving the depot he has 
issued to him a fur-lined teddy-bear suit, 
fur boots, sweater, fur gloves, and a huge 
cork safety helmet, which Wisdom tells 
him to wear and Common Sense pro- 
nounces impossible. Common Sense wins; 
so Wilkins gives the thing to the keeper 
of the "effets chauds pour pilotes," and 
retires. 

His flying things stuffed into a duffle- 
bag, which he has checked directly through 
to far-off Robinet, our hero boards the 
train with nothing but a light suitcase. 
He is delirious with joy, for it is long 
since he has been to Paris, and at the 
depot discipline has been severe and 



114 THE FLEDGLING 

luxury scant. Every journey to the front 
is via Paris, and the authorities wink a 
wise and kindly eye at a few hours' stop- 
over. Outside the station, an hour later, 
Wilkins is conscious of a sudden odd feel- 
ing of calm, almost of content, which puz- 
zles him until he thinks a bit. Finally he 
has it — this is what he is going to fight 
for, what all the Allies are fighting for: this 
pleasant, crowded civilian life; the dainty 
Frenchwomen going by on the arms of 
their permissionnaires, the fine old build- 
ings, the hum of peaceful pursuits. In the 
schools and at the waiting depot he had 
nearly lost sight of real issues; but now 
it all comes back. 

At his hotel he calls up Captain X 

of the American Aviation, — an old 
friend, who is in Paris on duty, — and 
is lucky enough to catch him at his 
apartment. They dine at the Cercle 
des Allies — the old Rothschild palace, 
now made into a great military club, 



FULL-FLEDGED 115 

where one can see many interesting 
men of all the Allied armies lunching 
and dining together. Dinner over, they 
drop in at the Olympia, watch the show 
a bit, and greet a multitude of friends 
who stroll about among the tables. A 

great deal of air-gossip goes on: A 

has just bagged another Boche; B , 

poor chap, was shot down two days ago; 

C is a prisoner, badly wounded. At 

a table near by, Wilkins, for the first 
time, sets eyes on Lufbery, the famous 
American "ace," his breast a mass of 
ribbons, his rather worn face lit up by a 
pleasant smile as he talks to a French 
officer beside him. 

At eleven our young pilot says good- 
bye to his friend and walks through the 
darkened streets to his hotel. What a 
joy, to sleep in a real bed again! The 
train leaves at noon, which will give 
him time for a late breakfast and a little 
shopping in the morning. After the first 



116 THE FLEDGLING 

real night's sleep in a month, and a light 
war-time breakfast of omelet, bacon, 
broiled kidneys, and coffee, he is on the 
boulevards again, searching for a really 
good pair of goggles, a fur-lined flying 
cap to replace the hopeless helmet, and 
a pair of heavy mittens. Old friends, in 
the uniforms of American subalterns, are 
everywhere; many wear the stiff -looking 
wings of the American Flying Corps on 
their breasts. All are filled with envy to 
hear that he is leaving for the front; their 
turn will come before long, but mean- 
while the wait grows tiresome. 

At length it is train time, and so, 
hailing a taxi and picking up his bag 
on the way, Wilkins heads (let us say) 
for the Gare de l'Est, getting there just 
in time to reserve a place and squeeze 
into the dining-car, which is crowded 
with officers on their way to the front. 
These are not the embusque type of 
officers which he has been accustomed 



FULL-FLEDGED 117 

to in the schools, — clerkish disciplin- 
arians, insistent on all the small points 
of military observance, — but real fight- 
ing men and leaders; grizzled veterans of 
the Champagne and the Somme, hawk- 
nosed, keen-eyed, covered with deco- 
rations. 

Back in his compartment, our pilot 
dozes through the afternoon, until, just 
as it has become thoroughly dark, the 
train halts at Robinet. On the platform, 
half a dozen pilots of the escadrille, smart 
in their laced boots and black uniforms, 
are waiting to welcome the newcomer, 
and escort him promptly to the mess, 
where dinner is ready. Dinner over, he is 
shown to his room — an officer's billet, 
with a stove, bathtub, and other unheard- 
of luxuries. 

Next morning, one of his new com- 
rades calls for Wilkins, presents him to 
the captain, who proves very chic and 
shows him his machine, which has just 



118 THE FLEDGLING 

been brought out from the depot. The 
armorer is engaged in fitting a Vickers 
gun on it, so Wilkins spends the rest of 
the day at the hangar, sighting the gun, 
adjusting his belt, installing altimeter, 
tachometer, and clock. 

An hour before sundown all is ready; 
so the American climbs into his seat 
for a spin, fully aware that many ap- 
praising eyes will watch his maiden per- 
formance. Off she goes with a roar, 
skimming low, over the field, until her 
full speed is attained, when the pilot 
pulls her up in a beautiful "zoom," 
banking at the same time to make her 
climb in a spiral. Up and up and up, 
her motor snarling almost musically — 
and suddenly she stops, quivers, and 
plunges downward, spinning. A hundred 
yards off the ground she straightens out 
magically, banks stiffly to the left, skims 
the hangars, and disappears. The mecha- 
nicians watching, hands on hips, below, 



FULL-FLEDGED 119 

nod to one another in the French way. 
"H marche pas mal, celui-la," they say — 
high praise from them. 

Wilkins, meanwhile, has flown down 
the river, to where a target is anchored 
in a broad shallow. Over it he tilts up 
and dives until the cross hairs in his 
telescopic sight center on the mark. 
"Tut-tut-tut," says the Vickers, and 
white dashes of foam spring out close to 
the canvas. He nods to himself as he 
turns back toward the aerodrome. 

At dinner there is much talk, as the 

weather has been good. A and L 

had a stiff fight with a two-place Hun, 
who escaped miraculously, leaving their 

machines riddled with holes. M had 

a landing cable cut by a bullet; J 

had a panne, and was forced to land un- 
comfortably close to the lines. At eight 
o'clock an orderly comes in with the 
next day's schedule: "Wilkins: protec- 
tion patrol at 8 a.m." 



120 THE FLEDGLING 

The French have not the English 
objection to "talking shop," and over 
the coffee the conversation turns to the 
difficulties of bringing down Huns and 
getting them officially counted — "homo- 
logue" the French call it. The great air- 
men, of course, — men like Bishop, Ball, 
Nungesser, and Guynemer, — get their 
thirty, forty, or fifty Boches; but never- 
theless it is a very considerable feat to 
get even one, and growing harder every 
day. Nearly all the German hack-work — 
photography, reglage of artillery, ob- 
servation, and so forth — is now done 
by their new two-seaters, very fast and 
handy machines and formidable to attack, 
as they carry four machine-guns and can 
shoot in almost any direction. Most of 
the fighting must be done in their lines; 
and far above, their squadrons of Al- 
batross single-seaters watch ceaselessly 
for a chance to pounce unseen. 

Add to this the fact that, to get an 



FULL-FLEDGED 121 

official count, the falling Hun must be 
checked by two independent observers, 
such as observation-balloon men, and 
you can see that it is no easy trick. 

Just before bedtime, the leader of the 
morning's patrol explains the matter to 
Wilkins. The rendezvous is over a near-by 
village at three thousand feet. Wilkins 
is to be last in line on the right wing of 
the V, a hundred yards behind the 
machine ahead of him. Signals are: a 
wriggle of the leader's tail means, "Open 
throttles, we're off"; a sideways waving 
of his wings means, "I'm going to attack; 
stand by"; or, "Easy, I see a Boche." 

After a not entirely dreamless sleep 
and a cup of coffee, our hero is at the 
hangars at 7.30, helping his mechanic 
give the "taxi" a final looking over. At 
8 he takes the air and circles over the 
meeting-place till the V is formed. Just 
as he falls into his allotted station the 
leader, who has been flying in great cir- 



122 THE FLEDGLING 

cles, throttled down, wriggles his tail, 
opens the throttle wide, and heads for 
the lines, climbing at a hundred miles an 
hour. 

Wilkins is so busy keeping his posi- 
tion that he has scarcely time to feel a 
thrill or to look about him. Suddenly, 
from below comes a vicious growling 
thud, another, and another: Hrrrump, 
hrrrump, hrrrump. He strains his head 
over the side of the fuselage. There be- 
low him, and horribly close, he thinks, 
dense black balls are springing out — 
little spurts of crimson at their hearts. 
The patrol leader begins to weave about 
to avoid the "Archies," banking almost 
vertically this way and that in hairpin 
turns, and poor Wilkins, at the tail end, 
is working frantically to keep his place. 
He has never seen such turns, and makes 
the common mistake of not pulling back 
hard enough when past forty-five degrees. 
The result is that he loses height in a 



FULL-FLEDGED 123 

side-slip each time, and gets farther and 
farther behind his man. 

Meanwhile, far up in the blue, their 
shark-like bodies and broad short wings 
glimmering faintly in the upper sun- 
light, a patrol of Albatross monoplaces 
is watching. Thousands of feet below, 
close to the trenches, they see the clumsy 
photographic biplaces puffing back and 
forth about their business. Above these, 
they see the V of Spads turning and twist- 
ing as they strive to stay above the 
photographers they are protecting. But 
wait, what is wrong with the Spad on the 
right end of the V — a beginner surely, 
for at this rate he will soon lose his 
patrol? As if a silent signal had been 
given, five Albatrosses detach themselves 
from the flock, and reducing their motors 
still more, point their sharp noses down- 
ward, and begin to drift insensibly nearer. 

Wilkins has been having a tough time 
of it, and at last, in a three-hundred-foot 



124 THE FLEDGLING 

wing-slip, has lost his comrades alto- 
gether, and is flying erratically here and 
there, too intent and too new at the game 
to watch behind him. Suddenly, two 
sparks of fire like tiny shooting stars 
whizz by him, a long rip appears in the 
fabric of his lower wing, and next moment, 
clear and unmistakable, he hears, "Tut, 
tut, tut, tut." He nearly twists his head 
off, and perceives with horror that five 
sinister forms, gray, sharp-snouted, and 
iron-crossed, are hemming him in, above, 
below, behind. His thoughts, which oc- 
cupy possibly a second and a half, may 
be set down roughly as follows: "Five 
Boche single-seaters — too many — must 
beat it — how? Oh, yes — climb in zig- 
zags and circles, heading for our lines." 

Leaving Wilkins for a moment, I must 
tell you a curious thing which shows that 
men have much in common with dogs. 
You know how, in his own yard, a fox- 
terrier will often put a mastiff to flight — 



FULL-FLEDGED 125 

and a fox-terrier, at that, who fears for 
his life when he ventures on the street? 
The same thing applies to flying — over 
the German lines you have a sort of a 
small, insignificant feeling, look at things 
pessimistically, and are apt to let your 
imagination run too freely. The minute 
you are over friendly country, that 
changes: your chest immediately ex- 
pands several inches, you become self- 
assertive, rude, and over-confident. Thus 
Wilkins. 

In a wild series of zooms and half- 
spirals, to throw off his pursuers' aim, 
he reaches his own lines safely, and finds 
that all but one Albatross have given up 
the chase. One of them, possibly a be- 
ginner anxious for laurels, is not to be 
thrown off; so the American resolves to 
have a go at him. 

They are at twelve thousand feet. The 
German is behind and slightly below, 
maneuvering to come up under the Spad's 



126 THE FLEDGLING 

tail. A second's thought, and Wilkins 
banks sharply to the left, circles, and 
dives before the Boche has realized that 
it is an air-attack. With the wind scream- 
ing through his struts, he sees the enemy's 
black-leather helmet fair on the cross 
hairs of the telescope, and presses the 
catch of the gun. A burst of half a dozen 
shots, a pull and a heave to avoid collision. 
As he rushes past the Albatross, he sees 
the pilot sink forward in his seat; the 
machine veers wildly, begins to dive, to 
spin. Good God — he 's done it — what 
luck — poor devil ! 

And that night at mess, Wilkins stands 
champagne for the crowd. 

Young H has had another wild 

time. He ran across a very fast German 
two-seater ten miles behind our lines, 
fought him till they were twenty miles 
inside the Boche lines, followed him 
down to his own aerodrome, circled at 
fifty feet in a perfect hail of bullets, killed 



FULL-FLEDGED 127 

the Hun pilot as he walked (or ran) from 
machine to hangars, riddled the hangars, 
rose up, and flew home. 

He shot away over four hundred rounds 
— a remarkable amount from a single- 
seater bus, as the average burst is only- 
five or six shots before one is forced to 
maneuver for another aim. 

On a raw foggy day, in the cozy living- 
room of our apartment, with a delicious 
fire glowing in the stove, and four of the 
fellows having a lively game of bridge, 
one is certainly comfortable — absurdly 
so. Talk about the hardships of life on 
the front ! 

The mess is the best I have seen, and 
very reasonable for these times — a dollar 
and a half per day each, including half a 
bottle of wine, beer, or mineral water at 
each meal. A typical dinner might be: 
excellent soup, entree, beefsteak, mashed 
potatoes, dessert, nuts, figs, salad. While 



128 THE FLEDGLING 

no man would appreciate an old-fashioned 
home-type American meal more than I, 
one is forced to admit that the French 
have made a deep study of cookery and 
rations designed to keep people in the 
best shape. There is a certain balance to 
their meals — never too much concen- 
trated, starchy, or bulky food. The vari- 
ety, considering the times, is really won- 
derful. Breakfasts my pal and I cook 
ourselves, occasionally breaking out some 
delicacy such as kidneys en brochette. 

We have an amusing system of fines 
for various offenses: half a franc if late 
for a meal; a franc if over fifteen minutes 
late; half a franc for throwing bread at 
the table; half a franc for breaking a tail- 
skid (on a "cuckoo"); a franc for a com- 
plete smash; a franc and a half if you hurt 
yourself to boot; and so on. A fellow hit a 
tree a while ago, had a frightful crash, 
and broke both his legs. When he leaves 
the hospital, the court will decide this 



FULL-FLEDGED 129 

precedent and probably impose on him a 
ruinous fine. 

Of course no one ever pays a fine 
without passionate protests; so our meals 
are enlivened by much debate. As we 
have a very clever lawyer and a law 
student almost his equal, accuser and 
accused immediately engage counsel, and 
it is intensely entertaining to hear their 
impassioned arraignments and appeals 
to justice and humanity: deathless Gallic 
oratory, enriched with quotations, class- 
ical allusions, noble gestures; such stuff 
as brings the Chamber to its feet, roaring 
itself hoarse; and all for a ten-penny fine! 

A good bit of excitement lately, over 
uniforms. In aviation, one knows, there 
is no regulation uniform: each man is 
supposed to wear the color and cut of 
his previous arm. The result is that each 
airman designs for himself a creation 
which he fondly believes is suited to his 
style of soldierly beauty — and many of 



130 THE FLEDGLING 

these confections have n't the slightest 
connection with any known French or 
Allied uniform. One may see dark-blue, 
light-blue, horizon-blue, black, and khaki; 
trousers turned up at the bottom; open- 
front tunics (like a British officer), and 
every variety of hat, footwear, and over- 
coat. 

I, for instance (being in the Foreign 
Legion), wear khaki, open-fronted tunic, 
a very unmilitary khaki stock necktie, 
Fox's puttees, and United States Army 
boots. Naturally, I have to duck for 
cover whenever I see the general loom 
up in the offing; for he is a rather par- 
ticular, testy old gentleman, very mili- 
tary, and can't abide the "fantaisies" of 
the aviator tribe. Lately he has caught 
and severely reprimanded several of the 
boys; so I guess that I shall have to 
have the tailor make certain unfortunate 
changes in my garments. 

The weather of late has been wretched 



FULL-FLEDGED 131 

for flying. A low, frosty mist hangs over 
the countryside; the trees, especially the 
pines, are exquisite in their lacy finery 
of frost. The few days we have of decent 
weather are usually interesting, as the 
Hun ventures over chez nous to take a 
few photographs, and with a little luck 
the boys are able to surprise him into a 
running fight. At night, when the tired 
war-birds buzz home to roost, a crowd of 
pilots and mechanics gathers before the 
hangars. All gaze anxiously into the 
northeastern sky. The captain paces up 
and down — though he has flown four 
hours, he will not eat or drink till he has 
news of his pilots. Jean is missing, and 
Chariot, and Marcel. Night is drawing 
on — the sky flushes and fades, and faces 
are growing just a trifle grave. 

Suddenly a man shouts and points, 
— Jean's mechanician, — and high up in 
the darkening east we see three specks — 
the missing combat patrol. Next moment 



132 THE FLEDGLING 

the hoarse drone of their motors reaches 
our ears; the sound ceases; in great curv- 
ing glides they descend on the aerodrome. 
We hear the hollow whistling of their 
planes, see them, one after another, clear 
the trees at ninety miles an hour, dip, 
straighten, and rush toward us, a yard 
above the grass. A slight bumping jar, a 
half -stop, and each motor gives tongue 
again in short bursts, as the pilots taxi 
across to the hangars, snapping the spark 
on and off. 

Then a grand scamper to crowd around 
our half-frozen comrades, who descend 
stiffly from their "zincs," and tell of their 
adventures, while mechanics pull off 
their fur boots and combinations. Other 
"mecanos" are examining the machines 
for bullet- and shrapnel-holes — often a 
new wing is needed, or a new propeller; 
sometimes a cable is cut half through. 
Snatches of talk (unintelligible outside 
the "fancy") reach one; we, of course, 



FULL-FLEDGED 133 

know only the French, but the R.F.C. 
stuff is equally cryptic. 

"Spotted him at four thousand eight, 
'piqued' on him, got under his tail, did a 
chandelle, got in a good rafale, did a glis- 
sade, went into a vrille, and lost so much 
height I could not catch him again." 

An R.F.C. man would say, "Spotted 
him at forty-eight hundred, dove on him, 
got under his tail, did a zoom, got in a 
good burst, did a side-slip, went into a 
spin," etc. I may say that "chandelle" or 
"zoom" means a sudden, very steep leap 
upward (limited in length and steepness 
by the power and speed of the machine). 
Some of our latest machines will do the 
most extraordinary feats in this line — 
things that an old experienced pilot in 
America would have to see to believe. A 
"glissade" is a wing-slip to the side, and 
down; a "vrille" is a spinning nose-dive. 

Among the younger pilots are several 
who entertain spectators with all sorts 



134 THE FLEDGLING 

of acrobatic feats over the aerodrome. 
A fine exhibition of skill and courage, 
but foolish at times — especially after 
a fight, when vital parts may be danger- 
ously weakened by bullet-holes. Too 
much acrobacy strains and weakens the 
strongest aeroplane. I believe in doing 
just enough to keep your hand in, as in 
fights you are forced to put enough un- 
usual stresses on your bus. 

I hope to know very soon whether or 
not we are to be transferred to the Amer- 
ican army. The long delay has worked 
hardships on a good many of us, as of 
course no pilot could begin to live on the 
pay we get. The Franco-American Flying- 
Corps fund (for which, I believe, we must 
thank the splendid generosity of Mr. 
Vanderbilt) has helped immensely in the 
past, but some of the boys are in hard 
straits now. I hope we shall be trans- 
ferred, because the pay will make us self- 



FULL-FLEDGED 135 

supporting, and any American would 
rather be in United States uniform now- 
adays, in spite of the bully way the French 
treat us, and our liking for our French 
comrades, with whom it will be a wrench 
to part. 

The point regarding our present pay 
is this : all French aviators are volunteers, 
knowing conditions in the air-service be- 
forehand. Before volunteering, therefore, 
they arrange for the necessary private 
funds; if not available, they keep out of 
flying. We get two and a half francs a day 
(as against five sous in the infantry), but 
on the other hand, we are lodged, and 
forced by tradition to live, like officers. 
It is fine for the chap who has a little 
something coming in privately, but tough 
for the one who is temporarily or per- 
manently "broke." 

Our boys are going to do splendid 
things over here. Everywhere one sees 
discipline, efficiency, and organization 



136 THE FLEDGLING 

that make an American's chest go out. 
The first slackness (unavoidable at the 
start of a huge and unfamiliar job) has 
completely disappeared. People at home 
should know of all this as quickly and as 
much in detail as expedient: they are 
giving their money and their flesh and 
blood, and prompt and racy news helps 
wonderfully to hearten and stimulate 
those whose duty is at home. 

For myself, there is nowhere and no- 
body I would rather be at present than 
here and a pilot. No man in his senses 
could say he enjoyed the war; but as it 
must be fought out, I would rather be 
in aviation than any other branch. A 
pleasant life, good food, good sleep, and 
two to four hours a day in the air. After 
four hours (in two spells) over the lines, 
constantly alert and craning to dodge 
scandalously accurate shells and sud- 
denly appearing Boches, panting in the 
thin air at twenty thousand feet, the boys 



FULL-FLEDGED 137 

are, I think, justified in calling it a day. I 
have noticed that the coolest men are a 
good bit let down after a dogged ma- 
chine-gun fight far up in the rarefied air. 
It may seem soft to an infantryman — ■ 
twenty hours of sleep, eating, and loafing; 
but in reality the airman should be given 
an easy time outside of flying. 

I was unfortunate enough to smash a 
beautiful new machine yesterday. Not 
my fault; but it makes one feel rotten to 
see a bright splendid thing one has begun 
to love strewn about the landscape. 
Some wretched little wire, or bit of dirt 
where it was not wanted, made my engine 
stop dead, and a forced landing in rough 
country full of woods and ditches is no 
joke. I came whizzing down to the only 
available field, turned into the wind, only 
to see dead ahead a series of hopeless 
ditches which would have made a fright- 
ful end-over-end crash. Nothing to do 
but pull her up a few feet and sail over, 



138 THE FLEDGLING 

risking a loss of speed. I did this, and 
"pancaked" fairly gently, but had to hit 
ploughed ground across the furrow. The 
poor "coucou" — my joy and pride — 
was wrecked, and I climbed, or rather 
dropped, out, with nothing worse than a 
sore head, where the old bean hit the 
carlingue. Now all the world looks gray, 
though our captain behaved like the 
splendid chap he is about it: not a word 
of the annoyance he must have felt. 

The very finest motors, of course, do 
stop on occasions. Better luck, I hope, 
from now on. 

As the days go by, I find much that 
is novel and interesting about the aerial 
war, which in reality is quite different 
from any idea of it that I had had. I 
will try to give a rough idea of how the 
upper war is carried on. 

The trenches, sometimes visible, often 
quite invisible from the heights at 



FULL-FLEDGED 139 

which one flies, form the dividing line 
between us and the Boche. Behind them, 
at distances of from seven to fifteen 
miles, are the aerodromes — a few acres 
of tolerably flat land, three or four or half 
a dozen hangars (often cleverly camou- 
flaged), barracks, and sheds for auto- 
mobiles. Each side, of course, knows 
pretty well the locations of the enemy 
aerodromes. This gives rise to a certain 
amount of give and take in the bombing 
line, which, in the end, accomplishes very 
little. 

It is a curious fact that in certain 
sectors the aviator's life is made miser- 
able by this ceaseless bombing, while 
in other places a species of unwritten 
understanding permits him to sleep, at 
least, in peace. I have a friend in a far-off 
escadrille who has to jump out of bed 
and dive for the dugouts nearly every 
clear night, when the sentry hears the 
unmistakable Mercedes hum close over- 



140 THE FLEDGLING 

head, the shutting off of the motor, and 
the ominous rush of air as the Huns 
descend on their mark. He knows that 
the Germans get as good as, or better 
than they give — but the knowledge does 
not make up for lost sleep. In my sector, 
on the other hand, we could blow the 
Boche aerodromes to atoms and they 
could probably do as much for us, but 
neither side has started this useless 
"strafing." Just before an attack, such 
bombing might be of military value; 
otherwise it only harasses vainly men 
who need what sleep they get, and de- 
stroys wealth on both sides, like ex- 
changing men in checkers without prof- 
iting in position. I have heard parlor 
warriors at home say, "By all means 
make war as unpleasant as possible — 
then it won't happen again." But there 
is a limit to this, when nothing of tactical 
value is accomplished. 

The aerodromes are the headquarters 



FULL-FLEDGED 141 

of the different squadrons, each of which 
is specialized in some type of work. Mili- 
tary aviation divides itself into certain 
groups, requiring different types of ma- 
chines and different training for pilot or 
observer. These groups are day-bombing, 
night-bombing, observation, photography, 
artillery fire-control, and chasse. I would 
like to tell you all about the different 
buses used, but of course one is not at 
liberty to do so. In general, bombing- 
machines are rather large two-seaters 
or three-seaters, designed to rise to great 
heights, where they are very fast, and 
capable of carrying heavy loads for long 
distances. They are, naturally, well armed, 
but depend (for safely carrying out their 
missions) principally on their speed at 
altitudes of eighteen thousand feet or 
more. Photography, observation, and 
artillery control machines, on the other 
hand, must be fast at lower altitudes, 
handy in a fight, and speedy climbers. 



142 THE FLEDGLING 

They are, so far as I know, always two- 
seaters, and are really the most impor- 
tant of all aeroplanes. I believe that all 
the allied designers should work together 
to produce a single uniform type of two- 
seater — small, quick to maneuver, and 
very fast up to fifteen or sixteen thousand 
feet. Such machines, flying about their 
work in small groups, are truly formid- 
able things for single-seater scouts to 
attack, as they are nearly as fast and 
handy, and have the enormous advantage 
of being able to shoot backward as well as 
forward. With light double-controls for 
the machine-gun man or observing officer 
(who would take a few lessons in emer- 
gency flying), they could not be brought 
down by killing the pilot — a most valuable 
feature. 

The Boches have such machines, — 
particularly the Rumpler, — which are 
tough nuts to crack, even when out- 
numbered. Two of our boys had a run- 



FULL-FLEDGED 143 

ning fight with a Rumpler recently, and 
dove at him alternately for thirty min- 
utes over forty miles of country. Both 
were nearly brought down in the process 
— -and they failed to bag the enemy 
machine, though at the last they did for 
the observer. This shows the great value 
of the fast two-place bus. I doubt if 
people at home are aware of the difficul- 
ties of designing a two-seater which one 
could pronounce, without hesitation, the 
best. It must have four major qualities: 
speed, climbing ability, diving speed, and 
handiness. The need of strength, or high 
factor of safety, goes without saying. 
Speed is simply a matter of power and 
head resistance, and is comparatively 
easy to attain alone; the rub comes in 
combining with it the requisite climbing 
power, and factor of safety. The Germans, 
in general, seem to believe in a very 
heavy, substantial motor, which cuts 
their climbing to a certain extent 3 but 



144 THE FLEDGLING 

gives them a very fast dive. The Allies' 
machines, I should say, are slightly faster 
climbers, but cannot follow a diving Hun. 
And so it goes — to have one quality in 
perfection, another must be sacrificed. 

Last of all come the single-seaters, 
whose sole purpose is to fight. Many 
different types have been tried — mono- 
planes, biplanes, and triplanes, with dif- 
ferent kinds of fixed and rotary motors. 
At present the biplane seems to have 
it (though I have seen an experimental 
monoplane that is a terror), as the mono- 
plane is by nature too weak, and the 
triplane (magnificent otherwise!) is too 
slow in diving for either attack or escape. 

The work the different groups per- 
form seems to be roughly the same in 
the Allied and enemy armies. The day- 
bombers fly at great heights, sometimes 
escorted and protected by single-seaters. 
The night-bombers fly fairly low, never 
escorted. Photographers, observers, and 



FULL-FLEDGED 145 

artillery regulators have a nasty job, as 
they must fly rather low, constantly sub- 
jected to a galling attention from old 
Archibald. When their mission requires 
it, they are escorted by chasse machines 
— a job that single-seater pilots do not 
pine for, because they often go twenty or 
thirty miles into "Bochie," where motor- 
trouble means a soup diet till the end 
of the war; and because, at low altitudes, 
hovering over a slow "cuckoo," the anti- 
aircraft gunners have too good a time. 

The single-seaters may be divided into 
two classes: the first does escort work 
about half the time, the second does 
nothing but parade up and down the 
lines, hunting for trouble. The last are 
the elite among airmen. Unfortunately I 
am not one of them, as they are recruited 
only from tried and skillful pilots. As to 
fighting, there is a good deal of popu- 
lar misconception. One imagines pictur- 
esque duels to the death, between A (the 



146 THE FLEDGLING 

great French or English ace) and X (his 
German competitor) — the multitude of 
straining, upturned eyes, the distant rat- 
tle of shots, the flaming spin of the loser. 
As a matter of fact, a duel between two 
monoplaces, handled by pilots of any- 
thing like equal skill, who are aware of 
each other's presence, is not unlikely to 
end without bloodshed. Bear in mind 
that they can shoot only forward, that 
the gun must be aimed by aiming the 
whole machine (to which it is fixed im- 
movably), and that a twisting, climb- 
ing, banking aeroplane, traveling at over 
one hundred miles per hour, is no joke to 
hit in its small vitals, and you can see 
that this must be so. 

The truth is, that the vast majority 
of fights which end in a victory are be- 
tween scouts and two-seaters, and that 
it needs two scouts to attack one bi- 
place with anything like even chances 
of winning. Think a moment. The two- 



FULL-FLEDGED 147 

seater is nearly as fast and handy as you 
are; he can therefore avoid you and shoot 
forward almost as well, and in addition, 
he has a man astern who can shoot up, 
sideways, and backwards with most su- 
perior accuracy. This disconcerting in- 
dividual, it is true, cannot shoot straight 
down when the wings are horizontal, but 
to enable him to do so, the pilot has only 
to tilt the machine to the necessary angle. 
Now, suppose two French monoplaces 
sight an Iron-Crossed two-seater. Flying 
at sixteen thousand feet, they see French 
shrapnel in white puffs bursting below 
them at two thousand feet, and several 
miles away. They change their course, 
and presently, dodging in and out among 
the fleecy balls, they espy a fast biplace, 
heavily camouflaged in queer splotches 
of green, brown, and violet. Coming 
nearer, they make out the crosses — ha, 
a Boche! Nearer and nearer they come, 
till they are four hundred yards behind 



148 THE FLEDGLING 

and six hundred feet above the enemy, 
who has seen them and is making tracks 
for home. Three hundred yards, by the 
way, is the closest one may safely ap- 
proach a machine-gun in the air. At this 
point A dives on the Boche to about 
two hundred and fifty yards, shoots a 
short burst, and veers off. The German 
machine-gunner lets him have a rafale, 
but meanwhile B has dived under and 
behind the enemy's tail. There he stays, 
at a fairly safe distance, with his eye on 
the rudder above him, ready to anticipate 
the banks which might enable the gunner 
to get in a burst. As soon as A sees that 
B is beneath the Boche, he dives and 
shoots again. The gunner is in a quandary 
— if he aims at A, B will slip up and for- 
ward, rear his machine into position, and 
deliver a possibly deadly burst. If he de- 
votes his attention to B, A will be safe 
to make a dive to dangerously close 
quarters. There you have the theory of 



FULL-FLEDGED 149 

the most common of all attacks — but 
in reality it is more difficult than it 
sounds. The three machines are traveling 
at great speed, and constantly twisting, 
rearing, and diving. It is the easiest thing 
in the world to pass another plane, turn 
to follow it, and see nothing, no matter 
how you strain your eyes. In passing, 
your combined speed might be roughly 
one hundred and twenty yards "per second, 
and you are both moving in three di- 
mensions. The object for which you search 
may be to the side, ahead, above, below; 
and every second of your search may be 
increasing its distance at enormous speed. 

It is bitterly cold, and I am sitting in 
our cozy mess-room waiting for lunch, 
which is at twelve. A dense fog hangs 
over the aerodrome, and the trees are 
beautifully frosted. 

Just had word that a boy who was at 
Avord in my time has bagged one of the 
"Tangos" — no mean feat. It is the 



150 THE FLEDGLING 

crack escadrille of all Germany — Alba- 
tross Dill's, driven by the pick of the 
Hun fighting pilots, and commanded, I 
believe, by Von Richthofen — the most 
famous of German aces. They are a 
formidable aggregation, recognizable by 
rings of tango red around their Iron 
Crosses, and stripes of the same color 
along the fuselage. For a young pilot to 
bring one of these birds down in one of 
his first flights over the lines is a won- 
derful piece of luck and skill. 

On days (like to-day) when the weather 
makes flying impossible, the fellows sleep 
late, make a long, luxurious toilet, break- 
fast, and stroll down to the hangars, 
where they potter around their "zincs," 
feeling over the wires, adjusting the con- 
trols, tinkering their machine-guns, or 
perhaps fitting on some sort of new trick 
sight. Sights are a hobby with every pilot 
and nearly every one has different ideas 
on the subject, advocating telescopic or 



FULL-FLEDGED 151 

open, one or two-eye outfits. Then, if one 
is extra careful, he takes out the long belt 
of cartridges, feels each bullet to make 
sure it is tightly crimped in the shell, and 
pushes and pulls the shells until all are 
exactly even. "Jams" are the curse of 
this game, and no amount of trouble is 
too much, if it insures a smooth working 
gun. Some jams can be fixed in the air, 
but others render you defenseless until 
you can land. 

Each pilot has his own mechanic, who 
does nothing but look after his bus, and 
is usually a finished comedian in addition 
to being a crack mechanic. In truth, I 
never ran across a more comical, likable, 
hard-working crew than the French avi- 
ation mechanics. They are mostly pure 
Parisian "gamins" — speaking the most 
extraordinary jargon, in which every- 
thing but the verbs (and half of them) is 
slang, of the most picturesque sort. Quick- 
witted, enormously interested in their 



152 THE FLEDGLING 

work, intelligent and good-natured, they 
are the aristocrats of their trade, and 
know it. You should see them when they 
go on leave. Jean or Chariot, ordinarily the 
most oily and undignified of men, steps out 
of the squadron office arrayed in a superb 
blue uniform, orange tabs on his collar, 
a mirror-like tan belt about his waist — 
shaven, shorn, shining with cleanliness, 
puffing an expensive-looking, gilt-banded 
cigar. Is it fancy — or is there a slight 
condescension in his greeting? Well, it is 
natural — you can never hope to look so 
superbly like a field-marshal. A little 
crowd of pals gathers around, for it is 
just after lunch; and presently the motor- 
bus draws up with a scream of brakes and 
a cloud of dust. The motor has "AV" in 
big letters on the side, and its driver 
(not to be confounded with any mere am- 
bulance or lorry chauffeur) would feel it 
a disgrace to travel under forty miles an 
hour, or to make anything but the most 



FULL-FLEDGED 153 

spectacular of turns and stops. The driver 
produces a silver cigarette case, passes it 
round, takes a weed, taps it on his wrist, 
and chaffs the permissionnaire about a 
new godmother on whom he is planning 
to call in Paris. 

Presently the captain steps out of his 
office; the departing one spins about, 
head back and chest out, cigar hidden 
in his left hand; "click" — his heels 
come together magnificently, and up 
goes his right hand in a rigid salute. 
Smiling behind his mustache, our ex- 
tremely attractive captain salutes in re- 
turn, and shakes Chariot's hand warmly, 
wishing him a pleasant leave. He is off, and 
you can picture him to-morrow strolling 
with princely nonchalance along the boule- 
vards. What if he earns but five cents a 
day — he saves most of that, and his pilot 
presents him with a substantial sum every 
Saturday night, all of which is put away 
for the grand splurge, three times a year. 



154 THE FLEDGLING 

In Paris, you will recognize the type 
— well dressed in neat dark blue, orange 
collar with the group number on it, finger- 
nails alone showing the unmistakable 
traces of his trade, face, eyes and manner 
registering interest and alert intelligence. 
As likely as not you see him on the terrace 
of some great cafe — a wonderfully smart 
little midinette (his feminine counterpart) 
beside him, with shining eyes of pride — 
and at the next table a famous general of 
division, ablaze with the ribbons of half 
a dozen orders. 

The "mecanos" dress as nearly like 
pilots as they dare, and after flying is 
over in the evening are apt to appear 
about the hangars in the teddy-bear 
suits and fur boots of the "patron." Some 
funny things happen at such times. 
There is a class of officers, called "officers 
of administration," attached to squadrons 
and groups of aviation, who do not fly, 
but look after the office and business end 



FULL-FLEDGED 155 

of the equipe. They are worthy men and 
do absolutely necessary work, but some- 
how are not very swank. 

One day it became known that the 
revered Guynemer was to visit a certain 
escadrille, and naturally all the officers 
were on fire to shake the hero's hand — a 
reminiscence to hand down to their chil- 
dren's children. The administration offi- 
cer — a first lieutenant — was late in 
getting away from the bureau, and when 
he got to the field, Guynemer had landed, 
left his machine, and gone to have the 
sacred aperitif of five o'clock. Meanwhile, 
the chief comedian of all the mechanics, 
dressed by chance in his pilot's combina- 
tion and boots, and proud to tinker (with 
reverent fingers) the famous Spad, had 
run out to where it stood, filled it with 
gas and oil, touched up the magneto, and 
cleaned a couple of plugs. The officer, as 
he came to the hangars, perceived the 
well-known "taxi," with the stork on its 



156 THE FLEDGLING 

side, and a furry figure strolling towards 
him. A snap of heels, the position of at- 
tention, and he was saluting (as he 
thought) one of the most glorious figures 
of France. The comedy mechanician — 
taking in the situation at a glance — 
strolled magnificently by, with a careless 
salute and a nod. The officer never in- 
quired who it was he had saluted — but 
what a tale to pass around the barrack 
stove on winter evenings! Mistaken for 
Guynemer! Saluted by a two-striper! 

In clothes and get-up the mechanics 
follow the pilots' lead, but in language 
the situation is reversed — we take pride 
in memorizing, chuckling over, and using 
at every opportunity the latest word or 
phrase invented by these gifted slangsters. 
An aeroplane is never "avion" or "ap- 
pareil," but "zinc," "taxi," or "coucou." 
Motor is "moulin" — to start it, one 
"turns the mill." In the aviation, one 
does not eat, one "pecks." One is not 



FULL-FLEDGED 157 

killed — one "breaks one's face," though 
face is not the inelegant word in use. 
Gasoline is "sauce"; to open the throttle, 
you "give her the sauce." A motor break- 
down is not, as in the automobile serv- 
ice, a "panne," but a "carafe" — heaven 
knows why! and so on. 

Life out here is in many ways a con- 
trast to the last six months. Though only 
a beginner, a bleu, I am Somebody, 
through the mere fact of being a pilot, 
and most of all a pilote de chasse — a 
most chic thing to be. I must dress well, 
shave daily, wear my hair brushed straight 
back and long, — in contrast to all other 
branches of the army, — have my boots 
and belt polished like a mirror, and fre- 
quent only the best cafe in town. These 
are, of course, unwritten rules, but sternly 
lived up to — and I confess that the 
return of self-respect, after months of 
dirt and barrack life, is not unpleasant. 

Our escadrille, composed of ten French 



158 THE FLEDGLING 

pilots, two Americans, and the officers, is 
really a very decent crowd of chaps of 
good family and education. Frenchmen of 
this kind are good fellows and pleasant 
companions, differing from us only on 
certain racial points of outlook and 
humor. Among them are two lawyers 
(with all the French lawyer's delicate 
wit, irony, and love of play on words), a 
large wine-grower (if you can grow wine), 
a professional soldier from Morocco, a 
medical student, and my room-mate, a 
most attractive chap, an English public- 
school man, whose family are French im- 
porters in London. He has been nearly 
everywhere, is absolutely bi-lingual, and 
is the sort of man who is at home in any 
kind of company. 

From time to time, of course, some 
one is brought down, and though I dis- 
like it intensely, one feels that decency 
demands one's presence at the funeral. 
Elaborate, rather fine ceremony usually, 



FULL-FLEDGED 159 

where the Gallic emotional nature appears 
at its best. At the last one, for instance, 
the captain (brave as a lion, and a man 
to his finger-tips) was overcome in the 
midst of his speech of eulogy and burst 
into tears. Impossible to an Anglo-Saxon, 
but to me there was something very fine 
in the sight of this splendid officer, 
frankly overcome with grief at the loss of 
one of his men. When the ceremony is 
over, each pilot and friend comes to pay 
respect to the departed comrade, takes 
up in turn an implement shaped like an 
Indian-club, dips it in holy water, makes 
a sign with it over the coffin, draped in 
the Tri-color, and sprinkles a few drops 
of water on the flag. 

At our mess, we have queer little 
things of glass to rest knife and fork on, 
while the dishes are being changed; and 
last night at dinner, when the captain's 
orderly assigned one pilot to a particularly 
ticklish mission, an irrepressible Ameri- 



160 THE FLEDGLING 

can youth who was dining with us picked 
up one of these knife-rests (shaped exactly 
like a holy-water sprinkler), stood up 
very solemnly, made the sign over his 
victim, and sprinkled a few drops on his 
head. Amid roars of laughter every one 
at the table stood up in turn and did like- 
wise. A harmless joke to us, but I am not 
sure of its good taste to a Frenchman. 

If I had known France before the war 
I could decide better a question that con- 
stantly occurs to me: "Has France grown 
more religious with war?" The educated 
Frenchman is certainly the most intelli- 
gent, the most skeptical, the least inclined 
to take things on trust of all men, yet on 
the whole I am inclined to believe that 
religious feeling (by no means orthodox 
religion) has grown and is growing. In 
peace times, death seems a vitally impor- 
tant thing, to be spoken of with awe and 
to be dreaded, perhaps as the end of the 
game, if you chance to be a materialist. 



FULL-FLEDGED 161 

All that is changed now. You go to 
Paris on leave, you spend two or three 
days delightfully with Bill or Jim or 
Harry, a very dear friend, also in on 
leave from his battery, regiment, or 
squadron. 

A week later some one runs up to you 
with a long face. "Bill got crowned on 
Thursday," he says; "joined a Boche pa- 
trol by mistake and brought down before 
he saw the crosses. Poor old cuss." You 
sigh, thinking of the pleasant hours you 
have passed with Bill — your long talks 
together, his curious and interesting kinks 
of outlook, the things which make per- 
sonality, make one human being different 
from another. Somehow your thoughts 
don't dwell on his death as they would 
in peace-times — a week or a month later 
your mind has not settled into taking for 
granted his non-existence. Next time you 
visit Paris, you hasten to his former 
haunts — half expecting to find him ab- 



162 THE FLEDGLING 

sorbing a bock and expounding his peculiar 
philosophy. 

Is there a life after death? Of course 
there is — you smile a little to yourself 
to think you could ever have believed 
otherwise. This, I am confident, is com- 
mon experience nowadays. The belief 
that individuality ceases, that death is 
anything but a quick and not very alarm- 
ing change, is too absurd to hold water. 
It is a comforting thought and gives men 
strength to perform duties and bear 
losses which in ordinary times would 
come hard. 

I have just been made popotier — I 
don't know what you call it in English, 
but it means the individual who attends 
to the mess : buys provisions, wine, and so 
forth, makes out menus, keeps accounts, 
and bosses the cook. A doubtful honor, 
but one of which I am rather proud when 
1 think that a crowd of French officers 



FULL-FLEDGED 163 

have entrusted to me the sacred rites of 
the table. I was never much of a gourmet, 
but what little I know stands me in good 
stead. 

To-day was the occasion of the first 
considerable feast under my regime — 
a lunch given by the officers of our 
squadron to some distinguished French 
visitors. The cook and I held long and 
anxious consultations and finally turned 
out a meal on which every one compli- 
mented us : excellent hors d'ceuvres, grilled 
salmon steaks, roast veal, asparagus, and 
salad. A dry Chablis with the fish and 
some really good Burgundy with the 
roast. Not bad for the front, really. 

I give the cook each night enough 
money for the next day's marketing. 
The following evening he tells me the 
amount of the day's expenses, which sum 
I divide by the number present, giving 
each man's share for the day. Very simple. 

Since I got my new machine I have 



164 THE FLEDGLING 

become a genuine hangar-loafer. It is 
so delicate and complicated that my un- 
fortunate mechanics have to work prac- 
tically all the time to keep me going. 
The only way to get the work done well 
is to know about it yourself; and so, 
against my instincts, I have been forced 
for the first time to study the technical 
and mechanical side of my bus. 

Some say, "The pilot should never 
know too much about his machine — 
it destroys his dash." Perhaps they are 
right — certainly a plunge into this maze 
of technicalities destroys his sleep — 
there is an unwholesome fascination about 
it: hundreds of delicate and fragile parts, 
all synchronized as it were and working 
together, any one of which, by its defec- 
tion, can upset or even wreck the whole 
fabric. A simple motor-failure, even in 
our own lines and at a good altitude, is 
no joke in the case of the modern single- 
seater. Small and enormously heavy for 



FULL-FLEDGED 165 

its wing-surface, it first touches ground at 
too high a speed for anything but the 
longest and smoothest fields. In pannes 
of this sort, the pilot usually steps out 
of the most frightful-looking wreck smil- 
ing and quite unhurt; but you can scarcely 
imagine the chagrin and depression one 
feels at breaking a fine machine. I did it 
once, and it made me half sick for a week, 
though it was not really my fault at all. 

After lunch, instead of taking a nap 
as one does when on duty at daybreak, 
I go to the "bar" to read letters and 
papers and see friends from the other 
squadrons. As I go in the door, five 
friends in flying clothes go out. 

"See you in two hours," says Lieuten- 
ant D . "Let's have a poker game; 

I've got a patrol now." 

"All right," I say, "I'll be here" — 
though I'm not very keen on French 
poker, which is somewhat different from 
ours. 



166 THE FLEDGLING 

The two hours pass in a wink of time 
as I lie in a steamer-chair, reading and 
reveling in the warm drowsy May after- 
noon. A sound of motors, the hollow 
whistling rush of landing single-seaters, 
and I glance out of the door. Here they 
come, lumbering across the field — but 
only four. I get up hastily and run to 
where the flight-commander is descend- 
ing stiffly from his bus. His face is long, 
as we crowd around. 

"Where's D ?" I ask anxiously. 

"Brought down, I'm afraid," he an- 
swers. "We chased some two-seaters 
twenty-five miles into the Boche lines, 
and nine Albatrosses dropped on us. Got 
two of them, I think; but after the first 

mix-up, I lost track of D , and he 

did n't come back with us." 

A melancholy little procession heads 
for the bar, and while the affair is being 
reexplained, the telephone rings. 

"Lieutenant D has been found 



FULL-FLEDGED 167 

at X . He was shot through the 

chest, but managed to regain our lines 
before he died. He was on the point of 
landing in a field when he lost con- 
sciousness. The machine is not badly 
smashed." 

At a near-by table, a dice game, which 
started after lunch and has been inter- 
rupted to hear the news, continues. I 
resume my place in my chair and spread 
out the Paris "Herald" — unable to fo- 
cus my mind on the steamship arrivals 
or the offensive. Poor old D ! 

We have had lovely weather for the 
past fortnight — long warm days have 
made the trees burst into leaf and cov- 
ered the meadows with wild-flowers. 
The quail have begun to nest — queer 
little fellows, quite unlike ours, whose 
love-song is, "Whit, twit, whit," with 
a strong emphasis on the first "whit." 

Sometimes, at night, a nightingale, 
on a tree outside my window, charms 



168 THE FLEDGLING 

me to wakefulness with his dripping- 
sweet music. 

These are strenuous days — I have 
done nothing but fly, eat, and sleep 
for a fortnight. Our "traveling circus'' 
has been living up to its name — going 
about from place to place with amazing 
mobility and speed. I have lived for a 
week with no baggage but the little bag 
I carry in my plane. It contains one 
change of light underwear, one pair of 
socks, tooth-brush, tooth-paste, tobacco, 
sponge, soap, towel, shaving things, mir- 
ror, a first-aid kit, and a bottle of eau de 
cologne. With this I can weather a few 
days anywhere until the baggage-trucks 
catch up. 

Our mobility is marvelous — we can 
receive our orders at daybreak, break- 
fast, and land in a place a hundred miles 
away in an hour and a half. Then a little 
oil and petrol, and we are ready to bounce 



FULL-FLEDGED 169 

something off the local Boche. I could 
easily write a large calf-bound volume 
on nothing but my experiences of the 
past week — one of the most strangely 
fascinating (in retrospect) of my life, 
though saddened by the loss of two of our 
pilots, one an American. 

We had no sooner got to this place 
than we were sent out on a patrol — six 
of us, with a French lieutenant, a special 
friend of mine, as flight-commander. 
None of us had flown before in this sector, 

and a young American (S -, of New 

York) was making his second flight over 
the lines. The weather was wretched, 
thick, low-hanging clouds with a fine 
drizzle of rain — visibility almost zero. 
While mechanics filled the machine, I 
pored over my map till I had all necessary 
landmarks thoroughly in mind. At last 
the captain glanced at his watch and 
shouted, "En voiture!" 

I climbed into my tiny cockpit, loaded 



170 THE FLEDGLING 

my gun with a snap of the lever, wiped 
the sights free of moisture, and sank 
back in my seat, while my mechanic 
adjusted the belt which holds one tight 
in place. Up went the captain's hand, and 
almost with a single roar the six motors 
started. One after another we rushed 
across the field, rose to the low ceiling of 
the clouds, and swept back, bunched like 
a flock of teal. The flight-commander's 
head, a black leather dot in his cockpit, 
turned swiftly for a glance back. All there 
and well grouped; so he headed for the 
lines, flying so low that we seemed to 
shave the spires of village churches. Soon 
the houses ceased to have roofs — we 
were over the front. 

A great battle was raging below us — 
columns of smoke rose from the towns 
and the air was rocked and torn by the 
passage of projectiles. Far and near the 
woods were alive with the winking flash 
of batteries. Soon we were far into the 



FULL-FLEDGED 171 

German lines; deep coughs came from 
the air about us as patches of black 
sprang out. But we were too low and our 
speed was too great to be bothered by 
the Boche gunners. Suddenly the clouds 
broke for an instant, and across the blue 
hole I saw a dozen Albatrosses driving 
toward us — German single-seaters, dark 
ugly brutes with broad short wings and 
pointed snouts. Our leader saw them too, 
and we bounded upward three hundred 
feet, turning to meet them. The rest 
happened so swiftly that I can scarcely 
describe it coherently. Out of the tail of 
my eye I saw our leader dive on an 
Albatross, which plunged spinning to the 
ground. At the same instant I bounded 
upward to the clouds and dropped on a 
Boche who was attacking a comrade. I 
could see my gun spitting streams of 
luminous bullets into the German's fusel- 
age. But suddenly swift incandescent 
sparks began to pour past me, and a 



172 THE FLEDGLING 

glance backward showed three Alba- 
trosses on my tail. I turned upside down, 
pulled back, and did a hairpin turn, ris- 
ing to get behind them. Not a German 
machine was in sight — they had melted 
away as suddenly as they came. 

Far off to the south four of our ma- 
chines were heading back toward the 
lines. Feeling very lonely and somewhat 
de trop, I opened the throttle wide and 
headed after them. Just as I caught up, 
the leader signaled that he was done for, 
and glided off, with his propeller stopped. 
Praying that he might get safely across 
to our side, I fell in behind the second in 
command. Only four now — who and 
where was the other? Anxiously I ranged 
alongside of each machine for a look at its 
number. As I had feared, it was the 
American — a hot-headed, fearless boy, 
full of courage and confidence, but inex- 
perienced and not a skillful pilot. No 
word of him since. Did he lose the patrol 



FULL-FLEDGED 173 

in a sharp turn and get brought down by 
a prowling gang of Albatrosses, or did he 
have motor-trouble which forced him to 
land in the enemy lines? These are the 
questions we ask ourselves, hoping for 
the best. 

An hour after we landed at our field, 
a telephone message came, saying that 

Lieutenant de G had landed safely 

a thousand yards behind the firing-line, 
with three balls in his motor. 

The captain sent for me. "Take my 
motor-car," he said, "and go fetch de 

G . The machine is in plain view 

on a hill. I am giving you two mechanics, 
so do your best to save the instruments 
and machine-gun. The Boche artillery 
will probably drop shells on the machine 
before nightfall." 

The trip proved rather a thriller, for 
at this point the old-fashioned picture- 
book trenchless warfare was in full blast. 
Picking up de G , we hid the car in a 



174 THE FLEDGLING 

valley and sneaked forward under an 
unpleasant fire of shrapnel and high ex- 
plosives. The unconcerned infantry re- 
serves, chaffing and smoking where they 
lay hidden in fields of ripe wheat, stiff- 
ened our slightly shaky nerves. Poor 
timid aviators, completely out of their 
element — I heaved a sigh of relief that 
came from the very soles of my feet when 
at last our task was done, and with our 
cargo safely stowed, we sped out of the 
valley and back toward the rear. Hats 
off to the infantry! 

Next day two of us went patrolling 
with the captain — a famous "ace" 
whose courage and skillful piloting are 
proverbial and who never asked one 
of his men to do a thing he hesitated 
to do himself. He was particularly fond 
of Americans (one of Lufbery's pall- 
bearers), and on many occasions had 
done things for me which showed his rare 
courtesy and thoughtfulness. None of us 



FULL-FLEDGED 175 

dreamed, as he laughed and joked with 
us at the breakfast-table, that it was his 
last day of life. 

The details of this patrol will always 
be fresh in my mind. We were flying 
at about seven thousand feet, the three 
of us, I on the captain's right. At six 
thousand, stretching away into the Ger- 
man lines, there was a beautiful sea of 
clouds, white and level and limitless. Far 
back, a dozen miles "chez Boche," a flight 
of Albatrosses crawled across the sky — 
a roughly grouped string of dots, for all 
the world like migrating wildfowl. Sud- 
denly, about seven or eight miles in, a 
Hun two-seater poked his nose above the 
clouds, rose leisurely into view, and dove 
back. I was quite sure that he had not 
seen us. The captain began at once to 
rise, turning at the same time to take 
advantage of the sun, and for a few min- 
utes we wove back and forth, edging 
in till we were nearly over the spot 



176 THE FLEDGLING 

where the Boche had appeared. At last 
our patience was rewarded. The Boche 
emerged from the clouds, seemed to 
hesitate an instant like a timid fish rising 
from a bed of seaweed, and headed for 
the lines, where doubtless he had some 
reglage or reconnaissance to do. 

Our position was perfect — in the sun 
and well above the enemy. The captain 
banked vertically and plunged like a 
thunderbolt on the German, I following 
a little behind and to one side. At one 
hundred and fifty yards, streaks of fire 
poured from his two guns, and as he dove 
under the German's belly I got into 
range. Dropping vertically at a speed (I 
suppose) of two hundred and fifty miles 
an hour, with the wind screaming through 
the wires, I got my sights to bear and 
pulled the trigger. Faintly above the 
furious rush of air, I could hear the stut- 
ter of my gun and see the bullets streak- 
ing to their mark. It was over in a wink 



FULL-FLEDGED 177 

of time: as I swerved sharply to the left, 
I caught a glimpse of the Hun machine- 
gunner, in a great yellow helmet and 
round goggles, frantically getting his 
gun to bear on me. A pull-back and I 
shot up under his tail, tilted up, and gave 
him another burst. 

But what was this — as I opened the 
throttle, the engine sputtered and died! 
I dove steeply at once to keep the pro- 
peller turning, realizing in a flash of 
thought that the long fast dive had made 
the pressure in my gasoline tank go 
down. A turn of the little lever put her 
on the small gravity tank called the 
"nurse"; but no luck — something was 
wrong with the valve. Nothing to do but 
pump by hand, and I pumped like a 
madman. Seven miles in the enemy lines 
and dropping like a stone — I was what 
the French call tres inquiet. Three thou- 
sand feet, two thousand, a thousand — 
and I pumped on, visions of a soup-diet 



178 THE FLEDGLING 

and all the tales I had heard of German 
scientific food substitutes flashing through 
my mind. Five hundred; a splutter from 
the engine, and at two hundred feet above 
a ruined village she burst into her full 
roar, and I drew a breath for the first 
time in the descent. Crossed the lines 
three hundred feet up with full throttle 
and the nose down, and did n't get a 
bullet-hole! 

I was unable to find the others, and 
as my petrol was low I went home. The 
rest I have from the other pilot. 

The captain apparently had the same 
trouble as I, for he continued his dive 
to about three thousand feet, followed by 
the other. The German, when last seen, 
was diving for the ground, so we shall 
never know whether or not we got him. 
Rising again above the sea of clouds, 
the captain attacked the rear man of 
a patrol of eleven Albatrosses which 
passed beneath him. Turning over and 



FULL-FLEDGED 179 

over aimlessly, the Hun fell out of sight 
into the clouds. At this moment three 
Boches dove on the captain from the 
rear — his machine burst into flames 
and dove steeply toward our lines. Our 
remaining pilot, hopelessly outnumbered, 
extricated himself with difficulty and 
arrived a few minutes after me, his bus 
riddled with balls. We found the cap- 
tain's body, just behind the firing-line. 
He had been killed by three bullets, but 
had retained consciousness long enough 
to get to friendly ground before he died. 
A splendid officer and a true friend, whom 
we all mourn sincerely. 

The past fortnight has been rather 
stirring for us — constant flying, plenty 
of fights, and the usual moving about. 
One gets used to it in time, but at first 
it is a wrench to a man of my conservative 
nature and sedentary habits. This time 
we have struck it rich in a village where 



180 THE FLEDGLING 

soldiers are still welcome. I have a really 
charming room in the house of the prin- 
cipal family — well-to-do people who own 
the local factory. Great sunny south 
windows, running water, and a soft 
snowy bed, scented with lavender! A day 
of rest to-day, as they are installing a 
new motor in my "taxi"; so I am planted 
at a little table, looking out through my 
window on a warm peaceful scene of tiled 
roofs, rustling leaves, and a delicious 
sky across which float summery clouds. 
Not a uniform in sight, not a sound of a 
cannon — the war seems an impossible 
dream. 

The last day at our old field I had a 
narrow escape. Two of us were flying 
together up and down the lines at about 
four thousand feet. The other chap had 
allowed me to get pretty far in the lead, 
when I spied, about two thousand feet 
below me, a strange-looking two-seater, 
darkly camouflaged, on which I could see 



FULL-FLEDGED 181 

no insignia. I dove on him, but not head- 
long, as the English have a machine on 
similar lines, and it was not until I was 
quite close that I made out two tiny 
black crosses set in circles of orange. By 
this time the machine-gunner was on the 
alert, and just as I was going to give him 
a burst, flac, flac, flac, bullets began to 
pass me from behind. Holes suddenly 
appeared in my wings; in another mo- 
ment whoever was shooting would have 
had me, so I rose steeply in a sharp turn, 
saw nothing, turned again and again, and 
finally, disappearing in the distance after 
the two-seater, I made out two little 
Pfalz scouts, painted dark green. 

My comrade, who was having engine 
trouble, saw the whole thing. The Boche 
single-seaters were well behind the larger 
plane they were protecting, — somehow 
I missed seeing them, — and when I dove 
at their pal they rose up under my tail 
and let me have it with their four guns. 



182 THE FLEDGLING 

Only some rotten shooting saved me from 
being brought down. The hardest thing 
for a new pilot to learn is the proper com- 
bination of dash and wariness: neither 
produces results alone; both are absolutely 
essential. One must bear in mind two 
axioms: first, bring down the enemy; 
second, don't get brought down your- 
self. A disheartening number of young 
pilots, full of dash and courage, trained 
at great expense to their country, get 
themselves brought down on their first 
patrol, simply because they lack skill 
and the necessary dash of wariness. A 
good general does not ordinarily attack 
the enemy where he is strongest. 

Our field was deserted: the mechanics 
were packing to leave, and my machine — 
old Slapping Sally — stood mournfully 
in the corner of a hangar. I stowed my 
belongings in the little locker at my side, 
had her wheeled out, adjusted my maps, 
and in five minutes was off on my long 



FULL-FLEDGED 183 

trip over unknown country. Our maps 
are really marvelous. With the compass 
to check up directions of roads, railroads, 
canals, and rivers, one can travel hun- 
dreds of miles over strange country and 
never miss a crossroad or a village. If, 
however, you allow yourself to become 
lost for an instant, you are probably 
hopelessly lost, with nothing to do but 
land and locate yourself on the map. 

When I left, there was a gale of wind 
blowing, with spits of rain; and in fifteen 
minutes, during which I had covered 
forty miles, the clouds were scudding 
past at three hundred feet off the ground, 
forcing me at times to jump tall trees 
on hills. A bit too thick. Seeing a small 
aerodrome on my right, I buzzed over 
and landed, getting a great reception 
from the pilots, who had never examined 
one of the latest single-seaters. It is 
really comical, with what awe the pilots 
of slower machines regard a scout. They 



184 THE FLEDGLING 

have been filled full of mechanics' stories 
about "landing at terrific speed — the 
slightest false movement means death," 
and the like; whereas in reality our 
machines are the easiest things in the 
world to land, once you get the trick. 

In a couple of hours the weather 
showed signs of improvement, so I shook 
hands all round and strapped myself in. 
To satisfy their interest and curiosity, I 
taxied to the far edge of the field, headed 
into the wind, rose a yard off the ground, 
gave her full motor, and held her down 
to within thirty yards of the spectators, 
grouped before a hangar. By this time Sally 
was fairly burning the breeze — travel- 
ing every yard of her one hundred and 
thirty-five miles an hour; and as my hosts 
began to scatter, I let her have her head. 
Up she went in a mighty bound at forty- 
five degrees, nine hundred feet in the draw- 
ing of a breath. There I flattened her, 
reduced the motor, did a couple of "Im- 



FULL-FLEDGED 185 

melman turns" (instead of banking, turn 
upside-down, and pull back), and waved 
good-bye. Rather childish, but they were 
good fellows, and really interested in 
what the bus would do. 

All went well as far as Paris, where I 
had one of the classic Paris breakdowns, 
though genuine enough as it chanced. 
Landed in the suburbs, got a mechanic 
to work, and had time for a delicious 
lunch at a small workmen's restaurant. 
Treated myself to a half bottle of sound 
Medoc and a villainous cigar with the 
coffee, and got back just in time to find 
them testing my motor. The rest of the 
trip was uneventful. I arrived here in the 
early afternoon and installed myself for 
the night in these superb quarters. 

This is the classic hour for French 
pilots to foregather in excited groups 
to expliquer les coups — an expressive 
phrase for which I can recall no exact 
equivalent in English. They (or rather 



186 THE FLEDGLING 

we) spend a full hour every evening in 
telling just how it was done, or why it 
was not done, and so on, ad infinitum. 
Snatches of characteristic talk reach 
your ears — (I will attempt a rough 
translation). "You poor fish! why did n't 
you dive that time they had us bracketed ? 
— I had to follow you and I got an eclat 
as big as a dinner-plate within a foot of 
my back." 

"Did you see me get that Boche over 
the wood? I killed the observer at the 
first rafale, rose over the tail, and must 
have got the pilot then, for he spun clear 
down till he crashed." 

"See the tanks ahead of that wave of 
assault? Funny big crawling things they 
looked — that last one must have been 
en panne — the Boches were certainly 
bouncing shells off its back!" 

"Raoul and I found a troop of Boche 
cavalry on a road — in khaki, I swear. 
Thought they were English till we were 



FULL-FLEDGED 187 

within one hundred metres. Then we gave 
them the spray — funniest thing you ever 
saw!" 

"Yes — I'll swear I saw some khaki, 
too. Saw a big column of Boche infantry 
and was just going to let 'em have it 
when I saw horizon-blue guards. Pris- 
oners, of course." 

You can imagine pages of this sort of 
thing — every night. At the bar we have 
a big sign: "Ici on explique les coups." At 
the mess, another: "Defense d'expliquer 
les coups ici." There are limits. 

As mess-officer I have been going 
strong of late — nearly every day one 
or two or three "big guns" (grosses 
huiles, the French call them) of aviation 
drop in to lunch or dinner. Down from a 
patrol at 10.30, and scarcely out of the 
machine, when up dashes our cook, knife 
in one hand and ladle in the other, fairly 
boiling over with anxiety. "Commandant 



188 THE FLEDGLING 

X and his staff are coming to lunch — 

I can't leave the stove — what on earth 
shall we do?" 

An hour and a half. Just time for the 
cyclist to buzz down to the nearest 
town for some extra hors d'oeuvres, salad, 
and half a dozen old bottles. In the end 
everything runs off smoothly, and when 
the white wine succeeds the red, the 
usual explication des coups begins — 
highly entertaining inside stuff, from 
which one could cull a whole backstairs 
history of French aviation. It has been 
my privilege to meet many famous men 
in this way — great "aces" and great 
administrators of the flying arm; men 
whose names are known wherever Euro- 
pean aviators gather. I wish I could tell 
you half the drolleries they recount, or 
reproduce one quarter of the precise, 
ironical, story-telling manner of a culti- 
vated Frenchman. 

A captain who lunched with us to- 



FULL-FLEDGED 189 

day, bearer of an historic name, was 
recently decorated (somewhat against 
his will) for forcing a Boche to land in 
our lines. The truth is that in the single 
combat high above the lines, the cap- 
tain's motor failed and he coasted for 
home, maneuvering wildly to escape the 
pursuing Hun's bullets. A few kilometres 
within our lines the German motor failed 
also, and down they came together — 
the Boche a prisoner, the Frenchman 
covered with not particularly welcome 
glory. Not all our guests knew the story, 
and one high officer asked the captain 
how he maneuvered to drive down the 
Boche. "Oh, like this," erratically said 
the captain, illustrating with frantic mo- 
tions of an imaginary stick and rudder. 

"But the Boche — ?" inquired the 
other, puzzled, "how did you get him 
down — where was he?" 

"Ah, the Boche; he was behind me," 
answered the captain. 



190 THE FLEDGLING 

Another officer, recently promoted to 
a very high position in the aviation, is a 
genuine character, a "numero" as they 
say here. He recently spent many hours 
in perfecting a trick optical sight, guar- 
anteed to down a Boche at any range, 
angle, or speed. He adored his invention, 
which, he admitted, would probably end 
the war when fully perfected, and grew 
quite testy when his friends told him the 
thing was far too complicated for any- 
thing but laboratory use. At last, though 
he had reached a non-flying rank and had 
not flown for months, he installed the 
optical wonder on a single-seater and 
went out over the lines to try it out. As 
luck would have it, he fell in with a patrol 
of eight Albatrosses, and the fight that 
followed has become legendary. Boche 
after Boche dove on him, riddling his 
plane with bullets, while the inventor, 
in a scientific ecstasy, peered this way 
and that through his sight, adjusting 



FULL-FLEDGED 191 

set-screws and making hasty mental 
notes. By a miracle he was not brought 
down, and in the end a French patrol 
came to his rescue. He had not fired a 
shot! At lunch the other day some one 
asked what sort of a chap this inventor 
was, and the answer was so exceedingly 
French that I will reproduce it word for 
word: "He detests women and dogs; he 
has a wife he adores, and a dog he can't 
let out of his sight." A priceless char- 
acterization, I think, of a testy yet ami- 
able old martinet. 

One of my friends here had the luck, 
several months ago, to force a Zeppelin 
to land. A strange and wonderful ex- 
perience, he says, circling for an hour 
and a half about the huge air-monster, 
which seemed to be having trouble with 
its gas. He poured bullets into it until 
his supply was exhausted, and headed 
it off every time it tried to make for the 
German lines. All the while it was settling, 



192 THE FLEDGLING 

almost insensibly, and finally the Hun 
crew began to throw things out — ma- 
chine-guns, long belts of cartridges, pro- 
visions, furniture, a motley collection. In 
the end it landed intact in our lines — a 
great catch. The size of the thing is simply 
incredible. This one was at least ninety 
feet through, and I hesitate to say how 
many hundred feet long. 

Three more of our boys gone, one of 
them my most particular pal. Strange 
as it seems, I am one of the oldest mem- 
bers of the squadron left. We buried 
Harry yesterday. He was the finest type 
of young French officer — an aviator 
since 1913; volunteer at the outbreak of 
war; taken prisoner, badly wounded; 
fourteen months in a German fortress; 
escaped, killing three guards, across Ger- 
many in the dead of winter, sick and with 
an unhealed wound; back on the front, 
after ten days with his family, although he 
need never have been a combatant again. 



FULL-FLEDGED 193 

A charming, cultivated, witty companion, 
one of the most finished pilots in France, 
and a soldier whose only thought was of 
duty, his loss is a heavy one for his friends, 
his family, and his country. For a day 
and a night he lay in state in the church 
of a near-by village, buried in flowers sent 
by half the squadrons of France; at his 
feet his tunic ablaze with crosses and 
orders. It was my turn to stand guard the 
morning his family arrived, and I was 
touched by the charming simple piety 
of the countryfolk, who came in an un- 
ending stream to kneel and say a prayer 
for the soul of the departed soldier. Old 
women with baskets of bread and cheese 
on their arms brought pathetic little 
bouquets; tiny girls of seven or eight 
came in solemnly alone, dropped a flower 
on Harry's coffin, and knelt to pray on 
their little bare knees. The French peas- 
ants get something from their church 
that most of us at home seem to miss. 



194 THE FLEDGLING 

At last the family came — worn out 
with the long sad journey from their 
chateau in middle France. Harry's mother, 
slender, aristocratic, and courageous, had 
lost her other son a short time before, 
and I was nearer tears at her magnificent 
self-control than if she had surrendered 
to her grief. Her bearing throughout the 
long mass and at the grave-side was one 
of the finest and saddest things I have 
ever seen in my life. Poor old Harry — I 
hope he is in a paradise reserved for heroes 
— for he was one in the truest sense of 
the word. 

I got absolutely lost the other day, 
for the second time since I have been on 
the front. I was flying at about nineteen 
thousand feet, half a mile above a lovely 
sea of clouds. I supposed I was directly 
over the front, but in reality there was 
a gale of wind blowing, drifting me 
rapidly "chez Boche." Three thousand 



FULL-FLEDGED 195 

feet below, and miles to the northeast, a 
patrol of German scouts beat back and 
forth, a string of dots, appearing and 
disappearing among the cloudy peaks 
and canons. Too strong and too far in 
their lines to attack, I was alternately 
watching them and my clock — very 
cold and bored. Suddenly, straight below 
me and heading for home at top speed, I 
saw a big Hun two-seater, with enormous 
black crosses on his wings. 

At such a moment — I confess it frankly 
— there seem to be two individuals in me 
who in a flash of time conclude a heated 
argument. Says one, "You're all alone; 
no one will ever know it if you sail 
calmly on, pretending not to see the 
Boche." 

"See that Boche," says the other; 
"you're here to get Germans — go after 
him." 

"See here," puts in the first, who is 
very clever at excuses, "time's nearly 



196 THE FLEDGLING 

up, petrol's low, and there are nine Hun 
scouts who will drop on you if you dive 
on the two-seater." 

" Forget it, you poor weak-kneed boob ! " 
answers number two heatedly. "Dive on 
that Hun and be quick about it!" 

So I dived on him, obeying automati- 
cally and almost reluctantly the im- 
perious little voice. With an eye to the 
machine-gunner in the rear, I drove down 
on him almost vertically, getting in a 
burst point-blank at his port bow, so to 
speak. Pushing still farther forward on 
the stick, I saw his wheels pass over me 
like a flash, ten yards up. Pulled the 
throttle wide open, but the motor was a 
second late in catching, so that when I 
did an Immelman turn to come up under 
his tail, I was too far back and to one 
side. As I pulled out of the upside-down 
position, luminous sparks began to drive 
past me, and a second later I caught a 
glimpse of the goggled Hun observer 



FULL-FLEDGED 197 

leaning intently over his cockpit as he 
trained his gun on me. 

But beside old Slapping Sally his 
machine was as a buzzard to a falcon; 
in a breath I was under his tail, had 
reared almost vertically, and was pour- 
ing bullets into his underbody. "You 
will shoot me up, will you?" I yelled 
ferociously — just like a bad boy in a 
back-yard fight. "Take that, then — " 
at which dramatic instant a quart of 
scalding oil struck me in the face, half 
in the eyes, and half in my open mouth. 
I never saw the Boche again, and five 
minutes later, when I had cleaned my 
eyes out enough to see dimly, I was 
totally lost. Keeping just above the 
clouds to watch for holes, I was ten long 
minutes at one hundred and thirty miles 
per hour in getting to the lines, at a place 
I had never seen before. 

Landed at a strange aerodrome, filled 
Sally up, and flew home seventy-five 



198 THE FLEDGLING 

miles by map. As usual, every one had 
begun the old story of how I was not a 
bad chap at bottom, and had many noble 
qualities safely hidden away — when I 
strolled into the bar. Slight sensation as 
usual, tinged with a suspicion of mild 
disappointment. 

Almost with regret, I have turned 
faithful old Slapping Sally over to a 
newly arrived young pilot, and taken a 
new machine, the last lingering echo of 
the dernier cri in fighting single-seaters. 
1 had hoped for one for some time, and 
now the captain has allotted me a brand- 
new one, fresh from the factory. It is 
a formidable little monster, squat and 
broad-winged, armed to the teeth, with 
the power of two hundred and fifty wild 
horses bellowing out through its exhausts. 

With slight inward trepidations I took 
it up for a spin after lunch. The thing is 
terrific — it fairly hurtles its way up 
through the air, roaring and snorting and 



FULL-FLEDGED 199 

trembling with its enormous excess of 
power. Not half so pleasant as Sally, but 
a grimly practical little dragon of im- 
mense speed and potential destructive- 
ness. At a couple of thousand feet over 
the field, I shut off the motor and dived 
to try it out. It fairly took my breath 
away — behind my goggles my eyes filled 
with tears; my body rose up in the safety- 
belt, refusing to keep pace with the 
machine's formidable speed. In a wink, 
I was close to the ground, straightened 
out, and rushing low over the blurred 
grass at a criminal gait — never made a 
faster landing. It is a tribute to man's 
war-time ingenuity, but, for pleasure, 
give me my old machine. 

The psychology of flying would be 
a curious study, were it not so difficult 
to get frankly stated data — uninfluenced 
by pride, self-respect, or sense of morale. 
I only know my own feelings in so far as 
they represent the average single-seater 



200 THE FLEDGLING 

pilot. Once in the air, I am perfectly 
contented and at home, somewhat bored 
at times on dull days, or when very high 
and cold. On the other hand, I have never 
been strapped in a machine to leave the 
ground, without an underlying slight 
nervousness and reluctance; no great 
matter, and only an instant's mental 
struggle to overcome, but enough per- 
haps to prevent me from flying the very 
small and powerful machines, for pleasure, 
after the war. I often wonder if other 
pilots have the same feeling — it 's noth- 
ing to be ashamed of, because it does not, 
in the slightest, prevent one's doing one's 
duty, and disappears the moment one is 
in the air. I can give you its measure in 
the fact that I always prefer, when pos- 
sible, to make a long journey in my ma- 
chine, to doing it in the deadly slow war- 
time trains. Still, it's a choice of evils. 
It is hard to give reasons, but certainly 
flying is not an enjoyable sport, like 



w 98 



FULL-FLEDGED 201 

riding or motoring, once the wonder of 
it has worn off; simply a slightly dis- 
agreeable but marvelously fast means 
of transport. The wind, the noise, the 
impossibility of conversation, the ex- 
cessive speed — are all unpleasant fea- 
tures. These are partially redeemed by 
the never-ceasing wonder of what one 
sees. One's other senses are useless in 
the air, but what a feast for the eyes! 
Whole fruitful domains spread out be- 
neath one, silvery rivers, smoking cities, 
perhaps a glimpse of the far-off ragged 
Alps. And when, at eighteen or twenty 
thousand feet, above a white endless sea 
of clouds, one floats almost unconscious 
of time and space in the unearthly sun- 
shine of the Universe, there are moments 
when infinite things are very close. 



THE END 



CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
U . S . A 






111": § v :*Sfe*- to •'^^ " oV ^ 


















* ♦JO©** * > ' V<? ' • ^ * VS$2& + 

^^ * »o\ /?*"* K $ ^ *5tvJ** /% Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proces 

. W. ^ cF o*** ^ <<&> Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 

Pdttfe ** C *^Sfoi> ^ * Treatment Date: JUN 2001 

Wf&if* **<$ ? i *WS& m ' ^^ ; ' PreservationTechnolog 

Sij> O <£ 9* * €^yPP; fi ^ " A WORLD LEADER IN PAPER £«««VATM 

feilVVoSs* * KT * ^y//ll^r* /n ^* * I" 11 Thomson Park Dnve 

'^S^* ■&? C> +yC6lf < ~'ir -/} & Cranberry Township. PA 16066 

e »° <i> °rU ""' ^. U ^ (724)779-2111 

V" • * * °* O »0 •**•'♦ %r> -j, 










\ 











